


I'm Not Calling you a Liar (Just Don't Lie to Me)

by Nightfall24



Series: Strange Desire [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Brainwashing, Bribery, British Legal System Inaccuracies, Cock Rings, Dark Sherlock, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Guns, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Obsessive Behavior, Pedophile Sherlock, Pedophilia, Poor John, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Teen John, Teen John Watson, Underage Sex, Verging on, because John is a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfall24/pseuds/Nightfall24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Sherlock has young John in his grasp, he plans on never letting him go and convincing the teenager to stay with him forever. </p><p>Part two of the 'Strange Desire' Series. It is necessary to read part one, Lies, before you read this sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Just Don't Lie to Me 别对我说谎（又名：我不是叫你大忽悠）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525191) by [Eurica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eurica/pseuds/Eurica)



> Welcome back and prepare your acid showers friends because this is going to be as dark as, maybe even darker than, the first part in the 'Strange Desire' series. 
> 
> Please, PLEASE, check the tags before you dive into reading this story. I'm sure most of you have read Part one and know what you're getting into, but this is just a friendly warning that this chapter and entire fic is going to be very upsetting and if you are easily triggered by pedophila and disturbing behavior...do not read. 
> 
> This chapter is a tad shorter than I normally write but I wanted to give everyone a little something before the weekend. The chapters will get longer, promise(:
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the first chapter and I would love to hear your thoughts on the update.

Chapter 1 – No Light, No Light

John’s whole body ached when he finally stirred from his long sleep. It only took a moment for clarity to set in, when he realized the bed he was lying on was not his. Sherlock had kidnapped him and drugged him so John couldn’t go back home. _What did he say? “When you wake up you’ll be a whole new person?” What the hell does that mean?_ “Oh God,” John whispered, opening his eyes quickly to examine his surroundings. He was still in Sherlock’s room, it was dark outside, only a single ray of moon light shown through the slat in the curtains, but most importantly, his kidnapper was nowhere to be found.

Knowing this might be the only chance he’d have to escape, John sat up, jumped out of the bed, ran down the stairs and out into the fresh air…well, at least he tried to sit up but something strange stopped him. The teenager was still lying flat on his back when he looked down at his body. He screamed at the top of his lungs when his eyes fell upon his armless and legless from. His arms were cut off at the elbow, with neatly stitched off ends and his legs where cut off at the knee with similar care shown to the sown off joints. “Nonononono NO!” John screamed and tried to wiggle his deformed body awake, knowing that this had to be a dream. Sherlock might be crazy, yes, but he would never do this, _would he?_  

The boy cried, never taking his eyes off his amputated form wondering if this is what the man had meant by ‘a whole new person.’ Why would he do this, seemed a better question to ask, as the evidence was right in front of him that, yes Sherlock was crazy enough to cut off someone’s arms and legs to keep them from leaving. It didn’t make any sense, Sherlock said he loved him and would always take care of him. John continued to cry, his throat closing up and his head starting to hurt from lack of oxygen and the whirling thoughts running rampant in his mind.

Finally, his answer came. “Ah, John, you’re awake,” came the deep voice that had once calmed him and sent delicious chills up his spine. He looked up to see Sherlock standing in a white blood stained apron, the kind John had only seen in horror films like ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’ “I’ll have to use a bit more anesthesia this time,” the man smiled and John noticed he was rolling in a metal tray with very, very dangerous looking medical tools perfectly lined up in a row.

“Sherlock, please, you don’t have to do this,” John begged. Another sob escaped his lips when he tried to reach out to the man but his upper arm only twitched, mocking him cruelly.

“Shhh, don’t cry John,” Sherlock cooed, petting a hand through John’s sweaty matted hair. “This is for your own good. I promise you won’t feel a thing. Have I ever lied to you?” He smiled again, running his hand down the bobbing Adam’s apple, stroking it gently, then straightening back up to grab a small plastic mask. “Do you know what a cordectomy is, John? No? Well I’ll tell you,” he brought the mask over to the teenager who was still struggling wildly for any leverage. “It’s the removal of all or part of the vocal cords,” he placed the mask over John’s nose, stoking over his hair again. Soft humming was coming from the deranged man as he pulled out a glass bottle of Iodine and began applying it generously over John’s throat.

 _He’s going to remove my vocal cords! I won’t be able to talk. Oh my God, he’s making me into a rag doll! Why did I do this, why did I get into that car?_ “Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this to me?!” John shouted, though the mask muffled is voice to a whisper.

“Because I love you,” he kissed John’s forehead, “and I’ll always take care of you.” He could almost taste the drugs flowing from the mask, making him panic even more.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, “John! John! JOHN!” Hands grabbed his shoulders and ripped him out of the nightmare. The psychotic blood stained Sherlock evaporated, bringing back all four limbs and vocal cords. John screamed, flailing his new found appendages as he was restrained by two arms and pulled back to sit in front of a warm chest. “Shhh shhh, it was just a nightmare, I’ve got you, shhhh,” he heard the dark timbre echo through his mind and the vibrations flowing from the solid chest into the back of his sweat soaked sleep shirt. “You’re alright John,” Sherlock cooed again, holding the teenager even tighter to his chest, both their legs spread out in a ‘V’ shape with Sherlock’s on the outside, extending a couple extra inches.

The slow up and down movement and the soft stroking over John’s chest began to bring him back to reality. Sherlock had grabbed him as he was floating off and kept him on the ground, safe and warm. However, once the teenager came back a little more, he remembered that part of the dream was real. Sherlock had drugged him and kidnapped him, telling him that he would be a new person. “S-Sherlock?”

“I’ve got you. I won’t let go, I promise,” Sherlock whispered into his hair, confusing John even more. The declaration made him feel terrified and comforted at the same time but still going off the nightmare he just had, John decided to go with terrified as the dominate emotion.

“You kidnapped me,” John began squirming lightly against the arms holding him.

“As I recall, you came here of your own free will. Plus, we’re in love, it’s not me who’s keeping you here, John, it’s your feelings for me. I know your scared of these new emotions, I am too, but we’ll get through this together.” Sherlock’s word clouded his mind. It seemed as soon as the waters cleared enough for John to have a clear thought, the older man jumped into the lake and stirred up the mud again.

“My mum, what about-?”

“It’s all been taken care of; you never have to go back to that horrible life again, love.” Sherlock’s hand began moving down from his chest to the hem of his pants. _God, how can such a simple movement feel so amazing._ “I’ll take care of you,” Sherlock whispered. Suddenly, images of the nightmare Sherlock’s words roared back into John’s brain. _No! This isn’t safe. This isn’t right._

“No, Sherlock stop! What did you do to my mum?”

The man behind him sighed but didn’t remove his hands from just under the elastic of John’s sleep trousers. “John Hamish Watson his dead,” Sherlock ran his other fingers over one of the teen’s nipples, bringing a moan from his lips. John could feel himself sinking in the pools of lust and sensation, his feet and arms treading as hard as they could to keep his mind coherent and logical. “Your mother’s son died Sunday morning and then John Franklin Thomas was born.” Sherlock’s nonchalant voice was what made the teen really start to panic. The lies could be undone, his death wasn’t real, this John Thomas wasn’t real, however, sitting in this man’s lap was and there was no escape, no light house to help him find a way out.

“I can’t stay here Sherlock. It’s not right, this isn’t my life. I’m not yours, I’m not a thing,” before John could finish his sentence, the hand on his chest tightened painfully. He began kicking his legs only to have Sherlock’s longer ones lift up and over his. A growl hit his ears, halting all the boy’s movements.

“You are mine and I am yours, John. Forever! You promised.” Sherlock snapped. Thinking fast and adrenaline starting to pump through his veins at the sudden rise in danger level, John lifted up his hips, made a fist and jammed it as hard as he could into the man’s crotch. Sherlock yelled and released his hold on John’s torso, letting the boy scramble off the bed. He only stumbled once before he got out of the room, but that was enough for Sherlock to catch up. When he made it out of the room, a large hand grabbed ahold of his bony shoulder, effectively throwing off his balance. Suddenly, John felt himself falling, but the strange thing was that there seemed to be multiple floors, which kept coming up to meet him, bruising every inch of his body.

Stairs, John was rolling down a long flight of stairs, _well so much for running now._ When he finally stopped, his right ankle and the right side of his flank began shooting electricity through his entire body. “Ahhh,” John moaned, feeling warm hands grab his shoulders and rub down his back. He rolled over, not sure if he was trying to get away or get closer to the gentle touch. Black spots started feeling his vision, both from the pain and the dizziness caused from rolling head over heel for what seemed like a hundred times.

“John! Oh God, John!” Sherlock’s voice was panicked. “What have you done to yourself? Don’t worry, Sherlock’s got you. I’ve always got you, my love.” John felt himself being lifted in the air, his side seizing up, bringing a painful cry from his throat. Soft praises and hushing were being murmured in his ear as he felt a soft surface come up to meet him. The deep voice and tender hands of his _kidnapper?_ soothed the pain he’d brought upon himself. He lied their looking up at the ceiling, his eyes becoming heavy until he finally fell back asleep, knowing that Sherlock was the only one who was there to save him. 


	2. Addicted to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes care of John's injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Wow, thank you so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos for this fic. I appreciate all the kind words in the comments, they really make my day(: Also, thank you to the people that have pointed out any errors, I will get to those as soon as I can and I apologize in advance it they interfere with your enjoyment of the story.
> 
> This chapter does not have any explicit scenes, however, it is very unsettling psychologically.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Chapter 2 – Addicted to Love

Sherlock sat on their bed, gazing over John’s limp body with a slight frown on his face. He didn’t understand why the boy had become so hostile all of the sudden and even went as far to say he didn’t belong at Baker Street. At that moment, Sherlock had realized how much he actually loved John. Anybody who could cause his heart to ache just from an angry look and a few harsh words was very special indeed. He stroked a hand through the youth’s blonde hair as he injected a small dose of the same sedative he had given him the other morning. However, this would only keep him asleep for two hours, providing enough time to put on the plaster gauze and let it harden. Sherlock had always kept gypsum powder and impregnated bandages near his experiments, just in case he needed to make a cast molding of evidence. Now, he could use it to make a molding to hold his John together.

Although the thought of John hurting himself sent out painful barbs in his heart and mind, Sherlock knew it was for the best. Plus, it was the teenager’s fault. “If you would have just listened to me like you were supposed to, then none of this would have happened, hmm?” He chided the sleeping boy, poking him playfully on his little button nose. The moment replayed in his mind over and over, running through the brand new scenario he had come up with in the ten seconds John tried to run away from their home. “If you won’t let me take care of you,” he whispered fondly into his stubborn boy’s ear, “then I’ll just have to make you.”  

He rubbed his pale hands over the boy’s exposed ribs, deciding they were only bruised and placed a soft kiss to each protruding bone, smiling when goose bumps began to form from his touches. Then, he moved onto John’s left wrist, feeling along the bones to find only minor tears in the little ligaments between. Another smile spread crossed his face, knowing this was the first time he would have real control of John’s mind and memories. If he told the teenager his wrist was broken instead of only slightly injured, then what choice would John have but to believe his one and only lover?

With another gentle kiss to the _‘broken’_ wrist, Sherlock moved down to the right ankle, pushing around on the skin, realizing this too was only slightly torn ligaments. He caressed the tanned ankle, cringing when the ghosts of John’s cries echoed through his mind. The small whimpers, which had come from the boy when Sherlock carried him back upstairs, threatened to start a brutal hurricane in the detectives mind. John could not take care for himself, that was evident now, and Sherlock would do everything in his power to make sure his boy stayed safe and well protected from both the teen’s rebellious nature and the dangers the world had to offer. If the last twenty minutes had proven anything to the detective, it was that he would certainly die or be consumed by his own madness if John was not by his side for eternity.

With one last pat to the boy’s bare chest, Sherlock began preparing his work station. He laid flannels and towels on the other side of the bed, rolling John over to lie on top so plaster wouldn’t spill on the bed. Next, he brought over a tray with the rolls of plaster soaked gauze, a bowl of water to trigger the chemical reaction, scissors, and some soft cotton cloth to protect his boy’s delicate skin from the gypsum.

John slept through the whole procedure, which Sherlock was sure it was due to how gentle he was with the boy’s injuries. After an hour and a half, he had enveloped both the teen’s left forearm, from his knuckles to just above his elbow, and from his right foot all the way up to under his knee cap with cloth, extra padding, and wetted plaster to immobilize the two appendages. He took a wet flannel and wiped off the white residue from John’s small fingers and toes protruding from the hardening white cast.

While the plaster continued to dry, which would take at least 24 hours, he began cleaning up the mess in preparation for John’s awakening. The boy would panic at first, obviously, but Sherlock was okay with that kind of reaction. It had been clear to the detective that the nightmare the teenager had been having before their first fight, _oh my that was our first fight wasn’t it John?!_ had something to do with him being immobilized. As soon as John had been woken up from the horrid dream, Sherlock noticed the boy’s eyes darted straight to his arms and then he tried to reach out to his legs to make sure they were real.

His boy having nightmares was unacceptable and Sherlock knew having these casts on would alarm John at first because of his dream, but in the long run, the teen would realize his lover would take care of him and not hurt him in this vulnerable time. “You’ll see, John,” Sherlock whispered as he put away the last of the soiled flannels and curled up next to the sleeping figure. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll feed you, bathe you, hold you, protect you, and love you forever. Oh John, I’ll make you feel so good, you’ll see.” He nuzzled into the small warm neck, biting slightly at the skin and cherishing the little whimpers coming from the boy as the sedative’s effects waned.    

“Mmmm,” John moaned as he tightened up his eyelids and nose and shook his head back and forth slowly. His boy was waking up and Sherlock had to stifle the desire to straddle and hover over him to see every feature come back to life. This was another lesson he’d learned from their first fight. John still spooked easily, so the detective decided he would offer as much space as his greedy mind would allow. However, that didn’t stop him from leaning up on one elbow to watch from John’s side as the foggy blue eyes opened. “Sh-Sher-“the boy’s voice was raspy and soon began to cough before those beautiful words could come out of even more beautiful lips.

“Shhh shhh,” Sherlock cooed, reaching behind him for a cup of water. He propped up John’s head slightly and held the glass to the dry lips, “there you go, just little sips, yeah. That’s it,” he praised when slurping noises echoed through the room. When he’d had enough, Sherlock placed his head gently back down on the pillow and put the cup back. “How are you feeling, John? Any pain?”

“Wh-What happened? Sherlock, why are…” he could see more awareness come back into the boy’s eyes and knew their next exchange was critical in keeping John calm.

“Do you remember what happened?” He continued stroking over the teen’s smooth stomach slowly, as to not attract his conscious attention but to covertly fill the boy’s hormone addled brain with endorphins.

“No…I no…wait, I- I fell…and you-you…” shallow wrinkles lined his forehead as he tried to recall what had happened to him. Sherlock waited patiently, having already checked John’s pupils and responses to ensure he hadn’t suffered a concussion, knowing it was only the lethargy caused by the drugs that caused the confusion. “You said that…you kidnapped me and I-I tried to…Oh God!” John cried out when he finally realized he was only in his grey pants with a white cast on an arm and leg.

Sherlock continued to stroke his fingertips over the boy’s skin when he decided it was time to set the record straight for John’s memory. “It’s okay, shhh, look at me John,” he gently gripped the quivering chin and forced the watery blue eyes to stare at him. Seeing his boy on the verge of tears hurt Sherlock more than he’d ever felt in his whole life but he had to be strong. John was his now and this scene of their play was the only way he could protect John from the fear and doubt the world had placed in his head. Once he could convince the teen to discard his old wretched life and feelings, all this pain they were both experiencing now would be worth it when John looked at his lover with all the trust that his little body could muster.

“Wh-what happened?” A few tears finally ran down his peach fuzzed cheeks.

“You were having a horrible nightmare early this morning and when I woke you up you were already in a panicked state. I tried to calm you down but I imagine that dream was a pretty nasty one because you tried to crush my bullocks and then ran out of the room.” Sherlock wiped his thumb over a few tears, smiling when he could see the apology wanting to escape the trembling lips. “It’s okay, you were just scared, you didn’t hurt me,” he assured the boy even though his groin still ached like a bastard. “I’m afraid you hurt yourself quite traumatically though, sweetheart. In your panic you fell down the stairs, oh God John I was so worried when you tripped.”

John continued looking back and forth between his immobilized limbs and the man relaying the story of what happened. “You were?”

Sherlock felt his cock twitch, when his boy didn’t even question how he tripped or if the casts were even necessary. All his little John was worried about was if he had accidentally hurt the man and if his lover was worried about him falling. _Oh John, you still surprise me with that beautiful heart of yours._ “Of course I was, John. I’ve never been as scared as I was when I saw you lying at the bottom of the stairs. You were unconscious by the time I reached you, so I carried you up here and took care of you. You’re left wrist and right ankle had hairline fractures so I wanted to get them wrapped up as quickly as possible. It should only take a few weeks to heal because I was able to tend to them so quickly.”

John continued to nod his head, sniffing a few times and wiping his nose with his good hand. It had worked beautifully, his boy believed every word Sherlock said and now their relationship and John’s trust could begin to form into the molding the detective had created. He had already begun fixing his John and could already see the gratitude in the boy’s eyes for taking care of him in such a helpless position. “Thank you,” John whispered and Sherlock swore he could see that the boy was disappointed in himself. _Oh John, these people have broken you_ _into little pieces haven’t they? Don’t worry though; I’m here to fix you with as many plasters as you need._

“Hey, it was just an accident. You were scared, that’s all, and it’s already happened so now all we can do is take care of the aftermath, yeah?”

John dropped his gaze and Sherlock could see more tears threaten to break free. “B-but who…who is gonna…my-my mum is-“ He tried to finish but Sherlock knew exactly where this line was going and cut the head off the snake before it even made it out of the bushes.

“I’m here, John,” he cupped the warm wet cheeks between his hands and placed a soft kiss to the boy’s lips, feeling that familiar euphoric blanket that only his John could provide cover his nerves. “I’m the only one who knows how to take care of you,” he smiled as another piece of the puzzle fell into place when he felt the small head nod in acceptance.   

              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, the link below is what I've been using to research more on the psychology behind Stockholm Syndrome. It is extremely interesting and if you like that kind of thing I would highly recommend giving it a read. 
> 
> https://www.princeton.edu/~achaney/tmve/wiki100k/docs/Stockholm_syndrome.html


	3. What the Water Gave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV directly after chapter two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello(: Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos, they really make my day and encourage me to keep writing. 
> 
> I apologize this chapter took me a bit longer than normal to write but my mind is fickle and decides when it wants to write and when it doesn't. I don't know but hopefully I will have another chapter by Friday or Monday at the latest. 
> 
> Just a warning, this chapter has some explicit material at the end but nothing as bad as the first part of the series. 
> 
> Thanks for reading(:

Chapter 3 – What the Water Gave Me

John felt good, really really good but the problem with feeling like that was his mind just couldn’t quite grasp onto any thoughts as they passed through his brain. He was sliding down fast on a slick surface with only Sherlock standing at the bottom to catch him, which should terrify the young boy but he felt too good to care. A forehead was pressed against his, hands wrapped tightly around his chest and back, and the hot breath on his neck brought John even deeper into the light blue haze enveloping his entire being. There was quite mumbling next to his ear but John couldn’t make out the words, nor did he care to try because the deep timbre of the voice offered comfort in a way he’d never thought possible.

“John, John my love, you need to wake up,” came the voice, slowly lifting him from his deep forest of bliss out above the canopy of trees and into the warm sun. He felt warm, he felt safe, he felt happy, and he felt good as he finally opened his eyes to see two silver irises staring back at him. Something, maybe fear, scratched at the back of his consciousness when he gazed into those eyes but the unconditional love John could feel washed away any negative thoughts…and he felt good.

“Hi,” John whispered, giving the man a sleepy smile, not caring to wake up yet from what had to be the best dream he’d ever had. He racked his foggy brain to try and remember the last time he’d ever woken up feeling this… _what am I feeling? I-I don’t even know what this is but please never let it go away._

“You took a quick nap there for a moment, yeah? Are you feeling okay?” Sherlock asked, forcing John to pull himself a little bit closer back to the surface in order to answer the question. He reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes to realize one arm felt lethargic from his sleep while the other just felt heavy. _Oh God, that’s right I broke my arm!_ John tried to sit up to examine his body and make sure his limbs where not cut off, like in his dream, but only wrapped in casts. However, his small body gave a slight jerk, then every muscle tried to go back to sleep, ignoring the commands his brain gave them to move. “Shh shh shh, it’s alright,” the voice was closer to his ear this time and when John turned his head back to face Sherlock, he was met with a soft kiss.

John’s eyes closed automatically when heat spread from that one point of contact to the rest of his body. He let Sherlock hold him as they kissed, one large hand was rubbing up and down his stomach, causing him to shiver when he felt goose bumps rise under the contact. Every time he tried to move his arm or leg to get closer though, the nagging in the back of his mind grew stronger, bringing memories of how he broke them to the surface and above the lustful fog that covered his body.

“Sherlock,” he broke away from the deepening kiss, “what happened? Wh-why am I here and not in a hospital? Where is my mum?” John watched the man’s eyes carefully, trying and failing not to lower his gaze and watch the swollen lips that had sucked him off the night before. _This is important_ , John’s mind kept telling his body, which only wanted to be held and kissed again.

“Oh John,” Sherlock caressed his cheek, “because I’m taking care of you now, not doctors, not your mum, ME!” He smiled but John could feel the want and possessiveness coming from the hand on his cheek. Strangely enough though, that look wasn’t what scared the boy. It was the small part inside him that craved the kind of attention Sherlock adorned him with. Not only the attention, but the fact that the man thought he was important enough to be cared for so immensely, drove John’s young mind into a civil war. Ninety-five percent of his mind knew that Sherlock’s behavior was obsessive and dangerous, not to mention he’s sixteen years older; but the five percent, that small selfish part in the back of his mind was getting larger with every kiss and kind word from the older man. And that was what terrified John the most.

“But…but my mum? You said she thinks I’m dead, right?” The thoughts of his mother crying over his tombstone filled the boy’s head, bringing tears once again to his eyes. He loved her, even with all her faults and shortcomings she was still his mum and John had always taken care of her when his dad died.

“It’s the easiest way, John, easiest for her and you to move on with your new lives,” Sherlock wiped away a few tears, which John knew should have made him angry because the man was the cause of the tears.

“I-I don’t understand, Sherlock, why didn’t she come looking for me? I’m not d-dead! W-why didn’t sh-sh-she…” John couldn’t stop his throat tightened up with a thick knot and Sherlock’s face became blurred with pooled tears, stinging his eyes. It was wrong, he knew, to put so much pressure and faith on his mother’s shoulders because ever since his father’s death she’d never been the same. _But still! If she’d gone missing I would never stop searching. NEVER!_ She assumed he was dead without question, abandoned her son to a fate unknown. The goodness he felt when he’d woken up was gone, replaced with cold emptiness, deeper and darker than any chasm known to man.  

Then, he felt his face being pulled into warm cloth and a soft thumping filled his ears. Sherlock had scooted closer, pulling John’s head to his chest to let the sorrowful tears soak into the gray sleep shirt. “I will never abandon you,” he heard the words come from above him but also in the vibrations from the man’s chest onto his tear stained cheek. For better or for worse, John believed him.

“Are they going to have a funeral?” He asked but really didn’t want to know the answer.

“I don’t think so. It’s very expensive to have those kinds of things, John. You know how much your mom struggles with finances.”

“Oh,” was all John could say. It didn’t feel good deep down but the thought of his mom having more money now because she wouldn’t have to take care of what she called his ‘obscene teenage boy metabolism and appetite,’ was a slight consolation. He’d always tried to take care of her, be the man of the house so to speak, but he seemed to always miss something. _I still lover her though, I really do miss her too,_ he tried to convince himself but the soft beating of the heart next to his ear drowned out the sounds of his guilt and regret.

Sherlock pulled away and looked down at him with kindness in his eyes. “John, I know you’ve always taken care of your mother. I was unbelievably proud of you when you wanted to get those scholarships so she wouldn’t have to worry about paying for your college.” The boy cursed himself for the slight blush he could feel on his cheeks from the man’s praise but he couldn’t deny the warm feeling in his tummy. “But that’s not right, that’s not your responsibility, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” John lied, knowing if he didn’t take care of things no one else would. He averted his eyes, looking down at the white cast covering his leg. When he heard a snort from the man, he shot his gaze back up to find Sherlock beaming down at him. “What?” he tried to sound as defensive as possible.

“You’re a terrible liar, John, you’re just too sweet,” Sherlock kissed him on the top of the head, making John angry because no teenage boy liked to be called sweet. He poked the man in the ribs playfully, giving his best and most threatening glare.

“I am not sweet!”

“Oh yes you are,” Sherlock countered moving down to kiss along the boy’s cheek and down to his collar bone. “And cute, and adorable, and smart, and cheeky,” he emphasized each compliment with a kiss until he got down to the armpit, “and stinky!” John panicked, realizing his breath must smell awful, along with his armpits and his greasy hair. _Oh God, how am I going to shower with these casts on? Oh shite, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

John’s long cursing session in his mind was cut off when he felt himself being picked up off the bed. “I know just how to show you how teenagers are supposed to act,” Sherlock laughed, hauling the boy into the bathroom with surprising ease.  

“Sherlock! Put me down! What are you doing, I ‘am’ a teenager!” John tried to bat at the chest when he was set down on the side of the tub. When the man turned the tap on, realization hit and then he really began to panic. “Sherlock, no, I can bathe myself…hey!” his protests where cut off by his pants being worked off over his cast. The painkillers Sherlock must have given him were starting to wear off because one, a slight throbbing pain started spreading through his wrist and ankle and two, his modesty was coming back in spades. Immediately, his hands came down to cup himself away from Sherlock’s gaze.

“You know I don’t like it when you hide yourself from me, John,” Sherlock slowly kissed up his good leg, causing his cock to shamefully jerk in an attempt to greet the man kneeling before him. All too soon, the warm lips left him and Sherlock turned off the tap with a satisfied grunt and then shed his clothes before John could even blink. For the second time he gazed upon the older man’s body, this time though it didn’t seem as scary. He would admit, _as any adult would_ , that when he was in the shower with Sherlock for the first time he was scared beyond belief. Now, however, now he was still a tad intimidated but also intrigued by the pale body before him. He had felt, tasted, and now was allowed to look, which seemed wrong but _hell, people have sex and babies before they knew each other’s last names sometimes. Who ever made these fucking guidelines has obviously never been in these kinds of situations._

“Right, in you go,” Sherlock picked him up again, bringing a loud embarrassing squeal and a bright red blush all along John’s face and chest. He stayed suspended in the air until the older man sat down in the shallow water, placing John in between his legs and lifting his casted leg and arm onto the tub edge where he realized towel cushions had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Sherlock squirmed under him, making John feel like a rag doll as he was pulled and placed until his head was lying on the man’s chest; his good leg all the way up to the top of his stomach was sitting below the surface of the warm soapy water.

Before he could say anything regarding how ridiculous this was, not to mention how embarrassing, Sherlock began rubbing soap over his chest and shoulders. It seemed as if someone had pulled the plug from his body, letting all the pain in his arm, his ankle, his heart, and his mind drain out into the calming water. Thoughts floated by now and again trying to bring up bad memories of things that John was trying so hard to forget. “This is how it should be,” Sherlock’s voice brought him back to the present, where the man had started rubbing soap onto his lower belly. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore, John. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He opened his mouth to answer but when a large hand wrapped around his half hard cock, John let out a pitiful moan. “You were so strong for your mother, such a good boy to take care of her but now it’s time to let someone else take care of you.” The words in his ears and the pleasure coming from his groin melded into one, forcing John to squeeze his eyes shut and his breath to speed up. “You don’t have to worry about proving yourself to your friends, about money, about the future, about anything because I’m here now, John and you’re mine.”

John could feel himself become fully hard under the quick ministrations of Sherlock’s hand. _Damn, he is so amazing at this!_ He could feel his climax coming, building up like a tidal wave behind a dam as all the worries and fears Sherlock had pointed out stacked up one by one, preparing to burst at any moment. Finally, when he heard Sherlock say, “I love you, John,” he came with a shout as everything left him, until there was nothing left but the water and Sherlock below him. “Good boy,” the praise took away the ache in his injuries and his straining thigh muscle, which had been propped up the whole time.

“Sherlock…” John could feel the man’s hard cock pressing against his lower back, anxious about what would happen next. It had hurt last time, yes, but that didn’t change the fact that he felt needed and so close Sherlock had made love to him that he thought the man might consume him. And that felt good.

“Shhh, I said don’t worry didn’t I? Are you hungry?” He asked, surprising John again.

“Yeah,” John whispered sheepishly.

“Alright, let’s get you dried off and put back on our bed and I’ll bring you up some more of those scones.”  

After Sherlock had lifted him out of the tub, dried him off gently, and pulled a baggy shirt and sleep trousers on him, he placed John back on the bed with a quick kiss to the forehead. “I’ll be back in five minutes, yeah. Don’t fall asleep,” he chuckled and left the room, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

The boy tossed and turned, trying to get his leg comfortable and hoping Sherlock would bring some painkillers with him when he brought the food. He rolled over, accidentally bumping his head on the night stand with a soft grunt. That’s when he saw his mobile phone sitting there, waiting for him. As if on cue, he heard a knock on the front door downstairs. _What do I do?!_ John began to panic again, all the pain and confusion he’d expelled in the bathtub with Sherlock was seeping back in through the cracks that the older man hadn’t filled yet.

Slowly, he reached out for the phone, looking back towards the bedroom door every other second to make sure no one was coming. Another knock from downstairs and the sound of Sherlock yelling “I’m coming,” forced John to snatch the phone up and cradle it in his hands. The first thing he noticed when he turned it on was there were no missed calls, which surprisingly didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.  Then, he scrolled down to his mother’s number, staring at it for only a moment until the ninety-five percent of his brain told his finger to hit call. He held the phone to his ear, closing his eyes tightly and praying no one would pick up.      

                  


	4. All this and Heaven Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after the events of chapter three. An unexpected visitor shows up at Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the amazing comments and kudos. I really appreciate the feedback(:
> 
> This chapter doesn't have any explicit material but still deals with disturbing behavior and subject matter.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 4 – All this and Heaven Too

When Sherlock heard a knock at the door, a million scenarios ran through his mind and the majority of them did not end well for the individual on the other side, especially if John decided to be a bad boy. If he did have to take…appropriate action when he opened the door though, perhaps the situation would come as a silver lining and prove to John just how far he would go to protect the boy’s wellbeing. _Hmmm, yes that could work. Maybe he’d even give me a reward or perhaps I’ll have to take one, either way works._

The knock came again, “I’m coming,” Sherlock shouted, wondering briefly what was going through his lover’s mind upstairs when he too heard the visitor at their door. He put the scones back on the counter, placing a syringe filled with the same concoction he’d used on John into his robe pocket and went to open the front door. Before he could reach for the knob though, his mobile buzzed in his trouser pocket. Quickly, he pulled it out to glance down at the screen to see if there was a problem. “Oh John,” he whispered to himself, as soon as he saw the boy’s number displayed as the incoming call.

Honestly, he was disappointed in himself more than he was with John. Of course there would need to be punishment for his actions of try and call his mother, which went without saying, but in truth, the detective should’ve known it was too soon to test the young man’s state of mind and trust. It was the knocking, Sherlock decided, that had startled his boy into making a rash decision. If given the proper time to mull over his options, he was positive John would have chosen to leave the bait on the side table. Nevertheless, it was only a test and Sherlock had routed the number to connect to his phone instead of his mothers, but John didn’t need to know that; no, all the boy needed to know was that he tried to call his only family member to come save him and they didn’t answer.

For right now, however, there were more pressing matters to attend to and Sherlock opened the door to greet the one man he did not expect. “Hello, Sherlock,” the happy voice rang down the halls of 221 in that Irish accent the detective loathed.

“Jim,” Sherlock gave a slight nod to the shorter man as he threw out all scenarios but the one that was second to last on his list of possibilities. The last being John’s mum standing on his door step with a gun in hand, ready to blow his brains out. Looking at the grinning man holding a black duffle bag in his hand, Sherlock would have preferred Mrs. Watson and the .22. “What brings you to Baker Street on this fine morning?” Sherlock tried to sound as innocent as possible, waiting for his best friend and worst enemy to reveal what he knew.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t play coy with me,” he said, laughing and pushing his way into the living room, dropping his bag next to the couch and plopping down with the same force. “I’m not one of those oblivious detectives like that Lestrade character you insist on playing with. We have the same connections, Sherlock, now tell me all about him before I go up there and find out for myself,” Jim smiled and crossed one leg over the other, looking towards the stairs. _At my John!_

“He’s mine,” Sherlock snapped, angry at just the thought of someone else, especially Jim Moriarty, touching his property.

“Ohh, testy are we?” The man lifted his eye brows as the smile on his face grew darker. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since Victor. How many years ago was that, three, four? Hmmm, that didn’t work out to well for you, now did it?”

“John is different,” Sherlock sat down on the chair across from the other man, bracing his fingers under his chin, gazing into the dark eyes. The detective forced his mind to focus on the here and now, with John waiting for him upstairs and not the mistakes he’d made in his past. He was only a child then, now he knew what he wanted and he wanted John, all of John.

“Really, oh do tell Sherlock, do tell, because quite honestly,” Jim put his palm to the side of his mouth, acting like he was telling the detective a secret he didn’t want the walls to hear, “on paper they both look identical.”

“Their hearts are different. John was alone, now he has me and I have him. We love each other.” Sherlock countered, knowing full well the Irishman had printed out their text messages, instant messages, and most likely hacked into the cameras he’d placed into John’s old house. It made his blood boil but they had already been down that road many times before and Sherlock had learned the hard way it was pointless to keep something from this man. Jim was like a virus, every time a cure was discovered to get rid of him, the disease had already adapted and was ten times more deadly. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand something like that. Oh, yes, how is your mindless plaything? What was his name…oh, yes Sebastian. How is the young chap, almost seventeen now, correct?”

“Look at you, all up on your high horse. Oh poor Sherlock,” Jim lowered his voice in a mocking tone, “he thinks he’s on the side of the angels now, helping little Johnny get through his problems. When in reality, you’re just like me,” the dark eyes glistened, sending a shiver up the detective’s spine. He knew what the man was saying wasn’t true, couldn’t be true. John loved him and in turn Sherlock took care of him, protecting the boy from the ‘Jims’ of the world. He might not be an angel, but he sure as hell wasn’t like the man sitting in front of him.

“I am not like you. You treat yours like they are nothing but vessels for your pleasure, like they are nothing. I love John and I would do anything,” Sherlock sat forward in his chair, assuring the other man that ‘anything’ meant killing, “to protect him from the bad things in this world.”

“How are you going to protect him from you?” Sherlock felt like he’d been hit in the gut, all the air being forced out of him. _Why would he say that? Why would John need protection from me, I would never hurt him. Never!_

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” the detective stood up, looming over the Irishman.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t be like that, I’m sure your Johnny is the most specialist of them all,” the grin on his face turned so wide it looked like a warped cartoon character. _A cartoon character that should’ve ended up on in the rubbish can,_ Sherlock mused to himself. “Can I see him?”

“No,” he almost shouted, not wanting to give Jim the slightest window of opportunity to plant something in John’s head, like he’d done to Victor all those years ago.

“Humph, you’re no fun,” he crossed his arms and pulled his lips into an over exaggerated pout. “Does big brother Mycie know yet?”

Sherlock sighed, going over to stand in front of the stairs just in case the man tried to play one of his games and get to John before he could. “I’m sure he is aware of the situation, however, he has not decided to grace me with his presence.”

“Well he’s not going to be happy with you, Mr. Holmes the younger,” Jim lowered his tone even more, standing up and hunching his back to mock…well Sherlock didn’t really get the reference. “I don’t think he’s going to cover for you again, Sherlock. I’d be careful if I were you. You can’t have your cake and eat it to, darling,” he strutted over to the taller man, pulling out a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Here’s my new number, have fun with the toys in the bag. Call it my…John warming gift.” Jim smiled, hit Sherlock’s chest to slip the piece of paper into the robe pocket, and left the flat with a wink.

Sherlock actually growled when he slammed the door shut, locking it with a rough snap of his wrist and then walked over to grab the scones to get his mind back on what was important, John. As he passed through the living room, the black bag caught his eye again, sending a title wave of both curiosity and paranoia through his John starved mind. W _ho knows what that bastard put in there?_ After a moment’s pause, he put the plates and glass down on the coffee table and unzipped the bag preparing for the worst.  

He sighed when he saw the contents, his shoulders dropping and losing their tension. Sex toys, Jim had left him different varieties of sex toys for him and John to play with. Sherlock, smiled thinking about all the things they would do together for the rest of their lives, how much fun they would have being all each other needed. The detective had learned from his mistakes that much he was sure of and he was also sure that John was different than Victor, different than all of them. John was special, John was perfect and John was his and he’d never felt this way in his entire life. That boy was his perfect hit and Sherlock knew he would never get bored.

Quickly, he scanned the contents but left them in the bag, _it wouldn’t be polite to spread out anal plugs all over the coffee table, now would it?_ Sherlock smiled when he saw the riding crop, thinking how beautifully John would moan as the black leather hit his skin. However, he didn’t like the fact it might leave scars on that precious skin. No matter though, it would give him reason to hone his skill so it would only be painful but not permanent. That right there was what he loved about John or better yet, loved what John did to him. The teenager made Sherlock a better person, normally he would scowl at bumps or blockades in his plan but now, he looked at them as opportunities for improvement. Yes, they both needed each other and the detective knew how lucky he was to finally have his John.    

He zipped up the bag, grabbed the scones and milk, then headed up the stairs contemplating what he was going to do about John’s failure from earlier. When he stepped into the room, he stopped dead, eyes going wide but doing his best to stay calm. It wouldn’t do to frighten the boy who was sitting on the floor aiming a pistol right at the detective’s chest. “John?” Sherlock kept his voice soft but inside he was kicking himself for underestimating John’s mobility with the casts and leaving the stupid gun in his drawer, just in case.

“Who were you talking to?” the boy’s face was bright red. Sherlock could tell he’d been crying and exerting a tremendous amount of effort to move around the room. _Oh John, you’ve hurt yourself again, haven’t you?_ His hands were already shaking, leaving plenty of cracks in his tired mind for Sherlock to slip into and grab the reins to steer his boy back on track.

“It was an old friend, not a very nice friend, but a friend nonetheless. What happened John, did something scare you?” Sherlock moved slowly as to not startle the panicked animal at his feet and placed the plate and glass on the floor.

“Who is Victor? W-what did you do to him? Who are these people? Who are you, Sherlock?” John shouted, lowering the gun slightly to Sherlock’s knee level as he broke down.

“Do you remember when we first talked and I said I had a boyfriend that I broke up with?” He took a small step forward, pleased when John didn’t seem to notice. “That was Victor, he was my first and I loved him with all my heart but…but he didn’t love me back and left me for someone else.” It wasn’t really a lie, Sherlock rationalized, he did love Victor but now, looking at his feelings for John, Victor was nothing to him. John would never run away, he would never leave him and as if to confirm his belief, the boy lowered the gun slightly again, pointing it at Sherlock’s feet. _That’s it, good boy._ The detective kept his features soft as he knelt down in front of John, cupping the soft wet cheeks between his palms. “And then you came along, John. You saved me when I was at my lowest, you’re my angel. The angel of Baker Street,” Sherlock chuckled, trying to lighten the mood as he rubbed a few tears away and prepared to remove the gun from the teenager’s hand.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock moved one hand to grip the gun while he left the other as a distraction, stroking the boy’s cheek. “That’s it, it’s okay now,” the man cooed when John let out a choked sob. “Such a brave boy, such a good boy, John. I’m sorry I scared you, love,” Sherlock released the clip and slid both pieces over into the corner of the room. “Let’s get you back on the bed so we can eat these scones, yeah?”

“S-s-she didn’t a-answer,” John cried, gripping ahold of Sherlock’s robe, causing the detectives heart to break. “She d-doesn’t c-c-care about m-me!” He hooked his arm under the shaking boy’s knees and behind his back, lifting him up to spread out on the bed. Quickly, he sat the glass of milk on the side table and brought the plate with him on the bed, propping himself up on the head board. John was still whimpering when he pulled the boy to his chest, letting his head rest on his right shoulder.

“Shhh, tell me what happened,” he asked but the answer was obvious. However, Sherlock knew it was important for John tp say it and hear it for himself. That’s the only way he would learn the lesson and his mother’s betrayal would sink in, bringing him one step closer to the man’s hold.

“W-When you went down stairs…I-I saw my phone and I tried to call her, just…just to see…” He could tell the boy was worried he was going to upset the man for doing something behind his back. Sherlock decided John had been punished enough and no longer desired to extend the lesson. All that was left was picking up the pieces and putting them back together, just where he wanted them.

“I’m not mad, John,” he stroked over the boy’s blonde hair. “Here you go,” he whispered, breaking off a piece of scone and holding it up to the quivering lips. Where his mother had taken away, Sherlock would be there to give. He felt the soft lips brush against his fingers as John ate like a baby bird, giggling when the man acted like he was going to give it to him then threw it up into his own mouth. It was good to hear him laugh, much better than crying, Sherlock agreed to himself while the boy licked his fingers clean of crumbs. “Does your wrist or leg hurt?”

“A little,” he said in a sleepy voice, adding a yawn as his hand that had continued clutching Sherlock’s robe started to loosen.

“She didn’t even try and call, Sherlock,” he whined, trying his best to look up at the man behind him.

“I know, love, I’m sorry. Did you try and leave a message?” That was a very good question. Did the boy still feel the need to reach out, take the initiative when his mother hadn’t even tried to call? Well, of course she had tried to call but that was John’s old phone, not the exact replica that John had thrown against the wall in anger and was now scattered in pieces on the floor.

“No,” he whispered and Sherlock could hear the shame in his voice. This was probably the first time he’d ever given up on somebody. Yes, plenty had given up on him but he would never do that, not his John who gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. It was sad, he admitted to himself, that John’s soul had aged a bit since he’d met Sherlock. No matter, though, in time the boy would come to realize life isn’t so bad when you have someone whom you can truly depend on.   

“Guess what,” Sherlock changed the subject quickly, so John couldn’t dwell on the fact he’d written off his mother.

“What,” the boy yawned again.

“I have a present for you down stairs and after a little nap I’ll bring it up so you can see. How does that sound?”

“Cool,” was all he got from the sleepy youth before he saw the blue irises disappear below closed eyelids.

Sherlock sat there for a long while, acting as a pillow for his John to rest on and recuperate from the hour’s trying events. Finally, he grabbed the phone out of his pocket and added Jim’s new number to the memory, praying he would never have to call for help again. The mobile vibrated slightly and Sherlock checked to make sure it hadn’t woken up John. Satisfied with the closed eyes and lax features, he checked the screen for the incoming text.

**Mycroft: We need to talk.**     

               


	5. Bedroom Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV after the events of chapter four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who left comments or kudos. It still seems surreal at how many people are reading and enjoying this fic.
> 
> There is explicit material in this chapter. It is more consensual than the ones in 'Lies' but obviously, John is still a minor who has been manipulated by Sherlock to think everything is okay and normal. So, in a sense, this is more dub-con than non-con but this is just a friendly warning(:
> 
> I hope you enjoy and I would love to hear your comments on the latest update!

Chapter 5 – Bedroom Hymns

‘The angel of Baker Street,’ that’s what Sherlock had called him, _an angel_. John shook his head slightly against the side of the man’s chest, knowing the only reason Sherlock said that was because he had a gun pointed at his chest. It was a stupid move, John knew, not only dangerous but childish as well to point a gun at somebody; especially the only ‘somebody’ who seemed to care about him. _I guess when you die you find out who your real friends are,_ John giggled at how crazy the thought sounded but it actually made sense.

“What’s so funny,” the deep voice came from the man who was acting as a pillow below him.

“Nothing,” John decided it was best not to make his thoughts known.

“You seem to be feeling better,” he said and John noticed the man typing something into his phone.

John took a moment before he answered, remembering how he had already threatened Sherlock, accused him of horrible things, and insulted him by trying to call his stupid mum. That man had been more patient than anyone he’d ever met and he’d even pointed a gun at him. So no, John decided right then and there he would stop acting childish and ungrateful to the man who had called him an angel. Hell, how can you be pissed at someone who holds you and hand feeds you scones after you threaten to shoot them and breakdown like a little baby? “Yes, much better. My arm still hurts a bit but I’m okay,” he whispered, craning his neck to try and see who Sherlock was texting.  

“I’m glad,” and John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice when he placed the mobile back on the table. “Would you like to try and call your mum again?”

John hadn’t expected the question, not from Sherlock at least. He snuggled closer, pushing his head deeper into the man’s armpit which surprisingly didn’t smell like anything except Sherlock. The horrible part was that no, no he really didn’t want to try and call again because both results would be too much for his already damaged heart to take. If she didn’t pick up again, it would only confirm how much she really didn’t care about her son. If she did pick up, however, it would mean an end to everything Sherlock gave him and would give him. “No, that’s okay,” he decided to close the door on his past life. Which, oddly enough, was easier than he thought it would be; definitely easier than he thought when Sherlock first told him what he’d done. Outside Baker Street seemed cold and scary now, but inside with Sherlock was warm and he had someone to hold him close to protect him from everything on the other side of the door.  

“Okay, well if you’d like to, just let me know, yeah. You don’t have to hide things from me John, I’ll never be mad at you when you ask for something, understand?” John could only nod his head sheepishly, as Sherlock’s kindness and understanding made him feel even more immature. “Good, now would you like me to show you your present? Well, actually it’s a present for both of us but I think you’ll like it too.”

“Yeah, sure” John smiled, wondering what had Sherlock so excited and if it came from the ‘friend’ who had just visited.    

“Great, I’ll be right back with some painkillers for your arm, too.” Sherlock slowly scooted out from under the boy, making sure to shove a pillow under his head to replace his body. John was shocked and a little upset at how much colder the pillow was, now that he didn’t have Sherlock under him. John felt coldness creep into every pour in his body, making him shiver. “Shhh, I’ll be right back,” Sherlock brushed his hand over the teenager’s forehead, which was now bright red with blush when he realized he’d let out a pathetic whine after he was left alone on the bed.

When Sherlock left the room with a wink, John smacked his head with his good hand. “You idiot,” he chastised himself for acting so needy. He’d never been this way before, no, John had always prided himself in being the trestle that held everything together. Always the guy you wanted on your side in a fight or when you needed something handled. But now, now he could feel himself crumbling after one touch from Sherlock, could feel himself losing the strength he’d used to hold up his mum and friends. It was as if evolution was taking place in that one spot in time, removing what was no longer needed, like an appendix or tonsil. Now, John’s body was adapting to the new, stronger, support in his world. “Oh God what is happening to me,” he fought as hard as he could to keep the tears in his eyes from shedding, causing them to burn painfully.

He heard the tell-tale sign of footsteps on the stairs and quickly pressed his face into the pillow, hoping the redness would fade enough to escape Sherlock’s attention. _Yeah right, the guy sees everything._ “What’s wrong, John,” the boy sighed when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, applying enough pressure for him to roll over on his back again. “Did I do something? Is your arm okay?”

“No, God no, Sherlock,” John spat out, not wanting the man to think he’d done something wrong. The old saying of ‘it’s not me, it’s you,’ came into his head and the boy couldn’t help but giggle again. For some reason, it felt easier to laugh when he was with Sherlock. It felt good to know he wouldn’t be made fun of for the little snorty noises he made when his laughing was genuine.

“You are the epitome of mixed signals John,” Sherlock laughed along with the boy as he sat a large duffle bag on the floor next to the bed and placed a pill on the boy’s tongue. “Swallow, for me,” he whispered and offered the glass of milk, which John sipped gratefully, then continued his laughing fit.

“I-I’m sorry,” John said through laughs, wiping the tears that were streaming down his face. He had no idea if they were happy tears or sad tears but nevertheless, they needed to fall and the laughing was helping. “I don’t know why I’m laughing,” he wheezed out the last word, quickly losing the ability to pull air into his lungs.

“Just breathe, okay John? If you start to hyperventilate, then it won’t be so funny,” Sherlock sprawled out next to him and began kissing along his neck, bringing a shiver down his spine and removing more air from his lungs.

“N-not helping,” John laughed again, looking up at the grinning man who rested his forehead on the teens.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. Do you know how delicious you look, John?” Sherlock kept nipping at his throat, moving farther south after every other bite until he arrived at John’s right nipple. An embarrassing yelp escaped his throat when he felt a jolt of pain shoot through his chest but strangely enough traveled down to his groin.

“Did you just-?“John looked down at the brown curls with both horror and arousal pooling in his stomach but broadcasting through his blue eyes.

“Yes, yes I did just bite your nipple,” Sherlock looked up at him, silver eyes obstructed by little brown strands. His smile, however, was completely visible with the most predatory grin John had ever seen. “You just looked so beautiful I had to try a piece.”

“Oh…okay,” was all John could get out as the blood in his brain rushed to tend to the stirring in his lower body. _Damn it John, that sounded so lame! I really shouldn’t have muted those porn movies._ But Sherlock only chuckled and continued kissing and biting down until he got to the waist band of his pants. John threw his head back with a groan when Sherlock began nuzzling and mouthing at his hard cock through the cloth. “Sh-Sherlock,” he stuttered, barely forcing the words out as he felt his balls tighten up, preparing to come without even being touched.

John was about to fall over the edge when suddenly, the pressure and warmth was gone, bringing a whine from his lips. _Nonono, please don’t stop!_ “Why-“

“Now, now, John,” Sherlock crawled up towards the head of the bed, bracing himself over the boy, making sure to not jostle his injuries. “We wouldn’t want everything to be over to quickly, now would we?”

“But, but I…I need,” yes, he did want to do it now. It was already there, in his grasp, why not take it and be done?

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock lowered his head so their eyes were only centimeters away but the bastard kept his hips elevated so John couldn’t sneak attack and rub himself off quickly.

“I do…but, but,” he did trust the man. He hadn’t an hour ago when he heard the two men talking downstairs about him and Victor. Now, though, after Sherlock chose not to give him back or even shoot him but to instead make love to him, well if that didn’t instill trust, John didn’t know what did.

“If we wait, it will only get better and then when I finally let you come,” the man smiled, showing every pearly white he had, “well, let’s just say you’ve never felt any pleasure so intense in your entire life. Now, do you trust me to make you feel good?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered without hesitation both from his aching neglected cock and the promise of making the feeling even better, which could undeniably be seen in the silver eyes above him.

“Good,” Sherlock gave a quick kiss to his nose, then jumped off the bed to dig around in the bag he’d placed on the floor. John tried to roll over to see what was in the bag but before he could shift his impeding casts far enough, Sherlock hopped back on the bed with a huge grin, holding a red plastic looking ring and a bottle of clear liquid. “Do you know what these are?

John looked at the bottle and assumed it was some type of high class lubricant but he’d only ever used lotion or soap when he worked himself to climax. The ring, however, he was embarrassed to say he had no idea what it would be used for, at least not in the context that was applied by them both being half naked on a bed. “Ummm, well lube and…ummm, I’ve never seen that before,” he admitted, not looking Sherlock in the eyes.

“That’s okay, John,” he pulled the boy’s chin back to look at him, “I’m glad I get to be the first to show you these things. What did I say about you getting down on yourself, hmmm?” John jolted, his eyes growing wide when Sherlock slapped the hip on his good leg twice, a little rougher to indicate more than playfulness.

“Did you just...” he asked, once again lost for words at the older man’s behavior.

“Yes, yes I did just spank you because I’ve told you repeatedly I will not tolerate your self-depreciating behavior.” He stroked gently over the spot he’s smacked and began kissing down the boys neck again, dulling the pain in John’s thigh. “And obviously you don’t listen when I tell you how beautiful and precious you are,” he made his way down to John’s pants, causing the boy to close his eyes and bite his lip when he pulled the last stitch of clothing from his body. “And apparently, my lack of self-control when it comes to touching and tasting your exquisite body is not getting through to you.” John watched as his cock twitched when Sherlock nuzzled and kissed at it with lustful eyes. He almost shot out of the bed when he felt wet warm heat envelope his bullocks and he clenched his fists into the sheets when Sherlock started sucking slowly. The man stopped momentarily, “so, it seems to me discipline is the only way you are going to learn your self-worth, John…well, that and me fucking you senseless.”

With those words and that beautiful mouth back on him, John could practically feel his come revving its engine in he bullocks to explode at any minute. Then, the mouth was gone again and something tight was pulled over the base of his cock. Pulled out of his blissful moment, the boy startled and looked down at Sherlock who was adjusting and inspecting the red ring, which was now tight around his flushed member. “Wh-What are you doing? Please, Sherlock, I need…I-“

“Shhh, this is a cock ring. Do you know what that means?” John couldn’t help the whine and slight thrust of his hips as Sherlock slowly stroked over the smooth sensitive skin on his hip bone. “It won’t hurt you, I promise, see I put one on too,” John pried his mournful eyes away from his own need and looked at the engorged cock, with a red ring at the base, sticking out from a nest of shiny black hairs. “You know how you get that tingly feeling when you fall asleep on your arm or you get your blood pressure taken? Well that’s what this does,” John’s hips jumped of the bed when Sherlock rubbed his fingers over the red tip of his cock. _Holy shite!_ The sensation was so intense it almost hurt and my God did he need to come. “It’s just like when you get that burst of sensation when the feeling comes back to your arm, yeah. Except, the only difference is,” he kissed the tip, making John shout and tears start to form in his eyes from the intense stimulation, “the penis has almost 25,000 nerve endings, which will all light up when I take this off for you to come. How does that sound?”

“Sherlock, please,” was all he could manage because his body felt like it was on fire, scorching every thought or repercussion he had about what was about to happen. His only goal, or so his cock was telling his brain, was to find a way to release the pressure building up in his groin and belly.

Suddenly, he was being flipped over, his casted leg and arm settled in a new position but he couldn’t feel any pain coming from the injuries. “As you wish John,” he heard Sherlock whisper from behind him and that’s when he felt wet fingers circling his arse. He was still sore from the days before but soon he found his new position allowed him to thrust his frustrated cock against the sheets in an attempt to relieve the pressure. When a finger slipped in, it didn’t hurt but still felt strange and foreign to him but that was okay because the sight of his orgasm was near, so, so near.

The finger stilled inside him, then a sharp smack echoed through the bedroom and burning pain on his left arse cheek was the result. A heavy weight pressed itself on his back and John knew he’d done something wrong, so he stopped his thrusting hips immediately. “You don’t get to come until I think you’ve learned your lesson, John.” Sherlock whispered and John could still feel the finger twitching inside him, sending a strange shiver through his bones. _What lesson?_ Was all the boy could think, trying his best not to move his hips and figure out what Sherlock wanted so he could come.

Then, the thought dawned on him, realizing Sherlock was still trying to show how worthwhile he was to him. As John was about to profess his acceptance of both himself and the way Sherlock felt about him, a voice shouted from downstairs.

“William Sherlock Holmes!” the angry voice shouted. In the blink of an eye, the thin finger was pulled out of him, leaving the small opening cold and empty. Sherlock jumped off and rolled John back over to rest on his back with his cock still hard and a dizziness pooling in his mind.

“Just stay here, I’ll be back,” Sherlock whispered as he pulled the covers up to his panting chest, giving a quick kiss to his lips when John whined in frustration and confusion. Surprisingly, the thought that a stranger was down stairs didn’t enter his mind until Sherlock threw his pajamas back on and ran out of the room.

“Sherlock?!” John called after the flustered looking man but it was too late. He was left alone in a huge bed, aching and waiting for Sherlock to come back and take care of him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until I can figure out how to put a permanent link for a translations of this work, I'm just going to copy and paste the links here.
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Mizugane, you can find the WIP translation of 'Strange Desire' in Chinese here:  
> \--http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=5294&extra=  
> \--http://www.mtslash.com/thread-112863-1-1.html


	6. Spectrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after chapter 5. Someone wants to meet John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone(: As always I really appreciate all the lovely comments and kudos, you don't know how happy it makes me that so many people are enjoying the story. 
> 
> This chapter has explicit material at the end but I'm sure if you've made it this far you already know that John is underage and Sherlock is not. 
> 
> Also, I make a few Chess references in the chapter, so for anyone who doesn't play or know the terminology, this is a tiny explanation of the words you will see. King, Knight, and Rook are all chess pieces. If the King has no legal moves to escape capture, it is called 'Check Mate' and the game is over. 'Check' is when the King is cornered and has only a few legal moves to escape to avoid getting captured. Anyways, that's all you really need to know for what I've put in the chapter(:
> 
> Enjoy and I would love to hear your thoughts on the latest update.

Chapter 6 – Spectrum

Sherlock leapt down the stairs, a wide grin on his face, knowing he had timed everything perfectly. John was lying up in their bed on the very cusp of his orgasm, waiting for his lover to return and finish the job. He had already brought the boy so close but then denied him to make his brain need, to make his brain so lust filled he wouldn’t be able to think of anything other than the final pleasure Sherlock had promised. John was now in the perfect state of mind to talk to Mycroft without panicking, like his boy so often liked to do.

Mycroft had said they needed to talk earlier than the detective had anticipated so, being the genius that he was, Sherlock decided to invite his brother over to meet John. That way, Mycroft could see for himself how much John wanted to stay with him and how much the boy hated his old life. Yes, the elder Holmes would see just how different John was from Victor and probably even buy the new couple a honeymoon cruise.

Sherlock finally made it down the stairs, his erection flagging enough under his robe so it wasn’t the first thing greeting his brother. Mycroft Holmes stood in the center of the living room, twirling his umbrella in one hand and holding a stack of papers in the other. Sherlock slowed down his pace, keeping his face neutral as his older brother stared daggers at him. “Sherlock, please tell me you do not have John Watson in your room,” Mycroft got straight to the point, which for all his faults, eating everything in sight being one of them, Sherlock admired his brother’s bluntness. Although, he would never tell him that of course, after all, you don’t compliment your archenemy.

“Nice to see you to, brother dear, how have you been?” Sherlock moved his rook to distract the knight going straight for his king.

“Don’t brother me, Sherlock. Do you know how much trouble you are causing, both for me, the Watson family, and for the police? What were you thinking? Taking the boy for the weekend is one thing but to keep him?! Did you not learn your lesson last time?” The man was livid, which Sherlock expected but was still mulling over the entire playing board to see where his brother would move next.

“You haven’t met John, Mycroft, he is different than Victor, so different you won’t even believe. Plus, John wants to stay here with me, I’m not forcing him. You’ve read his file, I’m sure you’ve stuck your nose into the CCTV and watched him,” Mycroft raised his chin slightly, but didn’t show any confirmation the allegation was true. _Check._ ”You know he wasn’t happy, hell, did you even look at his mother’s financial state? She can’t provide for him and I can, this is not like Victor who had a good rich life before me.” Sherlock continued to stare at his brother, who never lowered his gaze but twirled his umbrella quickly in his hand.

“I understand your feelings towards this boy are pure at heart, Sherlock, but you cannot fake a child’s death and give them a new name. Morally, it is not acceptable, not to mention all the paper work I’ve had to fill out when I saw the news report of young John’s suspicious suicide in Southampton.”

“Morals? If it’s morals you want to talk about then allow me to propose a scenario, yes. A person is truly unhappy in their life, no one to love them, no one to care for them, a young boy holding the weight of both his and his mother’s worlds on his small shoulders. A boy with so much potential that would never be realized unless…unless he is given a second chance…a second chance to have someone take care of him and cherish him mind body and soul. You know and I know it would be immoral to leave him stuck in that dank dark well of a life, Mycroft, and don’t try to deny it.” For the first time, Mycroft broke eye contact, looking down at the papers in his hand. _Rook takes Knight._ “You know and I know everyone would agree with my actions if they looked at the situation objectively.” Sherlock inhaled deeply, not realizing he’d said his entire speech in one breath. He waited for his brother’s reply, knowing there was only one more move to be completed before the game was over and he took home the prize.

“They know your name Sherlock, John told one of his friends, a Mike Stamford, that he met a ‘Uni boy’ in London named Sherlock that he was going to go visit.”

“I’m assuming since the authorities have not darkened my doorway you have already taken care of the necessary people to ensure Mrs. Watson believes I am a figment of the late John Hamish Watson’s imagination; the imaginary friend of a lonely homosexual teen who had had enough of lying to himself and ended his torment. So tell me, brother mine, why have you come to visit me? Would you like to meet John and make sure he is well, in order to sate your guilty mind at the actions you’ve taken to ensure he stay in my care?” _Check mate!_

Mycroft sighed, defeated by Sherlock’s logic and his own beliefs of what was best for the child. Although he did not agree with his younger brother’s methods of obtaining John, that much was obvious, there was no denying when looking at the situation objectively that Sherlock would be able give John a better life. He knew how the detective worked, he had seen it all his life, and the look on his little brother’s face told him he would protect John until his dying breath. “Yes, where is he?”

Sherlock grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets and twirling around dramatically to face the stairs. “In our bedroom, come. Now be nice Mycroft and don’t startle him. John is still in a fragile state from our visitor earlier today,” _damn it damn it damn it! This is what happens when you get too cocky, Sherlock. Focus!_

“What visitor?” Mycroft grabbed his shoulder when they were half way up the stairs. “Did Jim come visit you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, but I’m handling it, no need to worry about the big bad spider,” Sherlock grinned, trying his best to act confident even though he had to admit, Jim was unpredictable even for the ‘worlds only consulting detective,” and that terrified Sherlock, especially now that he had John to look after.

“He has been off our radar for a year, Sherlock! You know how dangerous he is?”

 “Of course I do, just put some more cameras around Baker Street, I’m sure he’ll show up again. The bastard still wants to talk to John so he’ll be back eventually but I can handle him, he won’t deceive me again. I know his tricks now, Mycroft, and no one is going to take my John away from me, no one!” Sherlock glared at his brother, angry he would accuse him of putting his boy’s life in danger. He gave one last sneer then headed up into their bedroom, where John was still draped over the bed, like a beautiful Van Gough landscape. No. No artist could ever capture the exquisite beauty of his John; for there were no amount of colors or brush strokes that could portray the innocent brave heart of the Angel who lay in his bed.

It was amazing at how Sherlock could feel his blood pressure drop and his mind slow from a maelstrom of destruction to only gentle swells kissing the shore as soon as he was back in his John’s presence. The boy startled when the men entered the room, probably lost in his own thought _about his lover no doubt,_ and then pulled the duvet all the way up to his neck. “S-Sherlock?” John stuttered, his eyes flicking between the men, looking for reassurance from his keeper.

 “It’s okay, love,” Sherlock comforted his boy as he went over to sit next to him, getting a good look at the slightly tented blanket, indicating John was still hard and wanting from their earlier love making. He put his arm behind John’s back, scooting him over to lie partially on his own chest. “This is my brother, Mycroft, he wanted to meet you,” he felt the boy relax a tad as he held him but when the elder Holmes took a step forward, John stiffened again.

“Hello John, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” Mycroft gave a tight smile, which Sherlock was sure he meant to be warm and comforting. “I just wanted to make sure you were settling in okay. Sherlock told me about your broken wrist and leg,” Mycroft gave his younger brother a look that said ‘what the hell happened’ but Sherlock only smiled and hugged John tighter to him.

“Y-yeah, I tripped and fell down the stairs,” John whispered the facts that hadn’t been true until Sherlock made them so in his boy’s head. He could feel the shy teenager fiddling with the hem of his robe but he kept his eyes on Mycroft the entire time. _My brave boy, you’re doing so well for me John._ “But they don’t hurt too badly now. What do you do?” Ever the polite little chap, John asked the man, whose smile turned more natural at the question.

“I work for the government, nothing really worth bragging about, just simple clerical business. What do you want to be when you grow up, John?” Mycroft asked, manipulating the boy whichever way he wanted, causing Sherlock to become more protective of his possession. Placing a possessive hand over John’s neck, he planted a soft kiss on the top of the gold locks, reminding him his Sherlock was there if he was scared.

“A doctor,” John gave a bashful smile and lowered his gaze, almost ashamed at wanting to aim so high with his aspirations.

“You will be the most magnificent doctor in the whole world John, I know it,” Sherlock encouraged, glaring at his brother to do the same.

“That is a very admirable career, I have no doubt you will succeed in all things you put your mind to, John. You have the heart of a soldier, I can tell, and I’m sure my little brother will be there for you when you need him.” Mycroft’s words shocked the detective. Sherlock had never expected to receive such a blatant blessing from his older brother. _He must see the weight in John’s eyes too.  He knows I would never hurt him. Jim was wrong!_

“Of course I will,” he mumbled into the boy’s hair, feeling the heat of blush rising into the boy’s face and scalp. It large angry pit formed in his stomach, knowing the reason John blushed at any compliment was because he had received too few in his old life. That was over now, though, and he would make sure to worship John’s body and soul every day for the rest of their lives.

 “Well, it was very nice to meet you John,” Mycroft bowed his head to the young boy lying in his brother’s arms. “I will leave my number in your mobile in case you ever need to get in touch with me, yes? Sherlock, walk me out,” it was not a request but a demand and Sherlock knew not to push his luck.

“Of course, will you be alright John?” When John nodded and waved a good bye to the elder Holmes, Sherlock removed himself from the room, following Mycroft to the front door.

“You know I don’t approve of this Sherlock…” Mycroft’s hand was on the door knob as he debated what to say next.

“But?” Sherlock encouraged.

“But, looking at John’s future, it is obvious he stands the best chance in your care,” the elder rubbed his hand over his face, trying to wipe away any guilt or regret.

“Thank you, brother, I will take care of him, I promise.”

Mycroft turned, looking him right in the eye and shoved a threatening finger in his chest. “You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, I know you blocked his calls to his mother, which I understand, but you will not,” he jabbed his finger in harder to make his point clear, “I repeat, you will NOT, block his calls if he needs to contact me. So help me Sherlock, if you harm that boy or forbid him from contacting me for anything! I will castrate you and put an end to this drug you so desperately need a hit from. Do you understand me, brother mine?”

Sherlock actually gulped looking into those furious blue eyes, knowing his brother meant every word. “I promise,” he said and meant it because if he could trust anyone to help him protect his John, it was Mycroft. The finger was removed from his chest with a nod as Mycroft opened the front door to leave.

“Oh, and Sherlock?” he called back, pointing his umbrella towards his younger brother’s groin. “Do go upstairs and take care of the boy’s release. He looked as if he was about to burst from your cunning strategy to inhibit him from talking to me in a coherent manner.” With that, the man was gone, leaving Sherlock with a large grin on his face. He was upset his plan had been found out but that didn’t stop if from working, now did it?

Sherlock bound up the stairs at lightning speed, threw open the door and leapt onto the bed where his prize awaited him. As he threw away the covers, seeing that yes, John was still semi hard, the detective began kissing fiercely down the planes of the golden chest. “Sherlock,” the boy moaned, finally getting what he’d been craving from his lover. “Your brother is kind of scary,” John laughed, looking down at him with big blue eyes.

“One rule John,” he whispered, planting a kiss on the fine blonde curls just above the red cock ring, “never talk about my brother when we are in bed.” They both laughed together, the sound filling Sherlock’s cock almost painfully. “Oh John, just thinking about you hard and waiting for me,” he scooted up behind the boy, rolling him over so they were spooning with John’s casted leg lying on the bed and the other being hosted up under Sherlock’s arm, exposing the hole that was his and his alone. “I could barely contain myself. Do you know how gorgeous you are? How hard you make me, John?” The detective grabbed the lube from the side table and spread it on himself and on the clenching hole in front of him. It was time to give John his reward for being such a good boy.  

He saw the boy use his good hand to stroke his cock furiously, trying to dull the pain as Sherlock pressed his hard member against the tight hole. “Oh God,” John moaned, his body tensing as Sherlock watched himself slowly disappear inside the boy. It was still way too tight and most likely causing pain but after this time he would make sure to keep John open with the plug Jim had brought him. “Sherlock, i-it hurts…please.”

“Shh, just try to relax John. Push out for me, that’s it,” he could feel the boy obey his command, making the slid in easier until he was finally fully seated once again in the delicate tight heat of his John. “You feel so good John,” Sherlock cooed in his ear, listening to the boy panting when he rocked back and forth rhythmically, letting his hips rest perfectly against the curve of the boy’s arse. They were perfect together, like a solid color puzzle with a million pieces that only Sherlock had the ability to complete. As their grunts became deeper, Sherlock lifted the boy’s leg higher to push in deeper. When John yelped and twitched he knew he had hit the boy’s prostate. “Are you ready to come, John?” Sherlock asked, slipping his other hand under the boy and replacing the small hand with his own to slowly stroke the whimpering boy.

“Sherlock, please!” John asked, trying to push the bigger hand away so he could speed up the friction and pull the cock ring off. But Sherlock knew just how much to push the teen and as soon as he gave three more hard thrusts, shaking the boy’s body, the detective pulled off the ring and stroked quickly over the engorged cock in his hand. It only took two jerks from his hand and two direct hits to John’s prostate and they both came with a shout. Once again, he filled John up with his seed, letting it soak into the boy’s being. Sherlock wondered briefly, as the warm cavern clenched rhythmically around him, if he could pump John full of enough come to change the boy’s DNA.

John cried out, his entire body convulsing as his release shot over the bed and even went far enough to land on the floor. Sherlock wanted to play this game with the cock ring again sometime and was pretty sure John would feel the same after that amazing orgasm. “Are you okay?” Sherlock asked as they both laughed and panted.

“I think so,” John giggled and, to Sherlock’s approval, scooted back further into the man’s embrace, even though his arse probably hurt as he was still impaled. Quickly, Sherlock reached over behind him and pulled out a small blue anal plug that would keep his come inside John for the rest of the day…or at least until he needed another hit. He slowly pulled out, eliciting a small pained whine from the boy, watching as a line of precious seed created a tether between him and his lover. The small pearly white come linked them together, ensuring Sherlock’s mark would always be inside his John. He parted the reddened cheeks and easily worked in the plug, which was much smaller than Sherlock’s cock.

John jerked at the strange silicone intrusion, craning his neck back to look at what Sherlock had done. The detective just smiled back at him, planting several light kisses over the sweaty face and neck, assuring the boy everything was okay. “So that you’ll always have me inside of you, with you; even when I’m not holding you, you will still be able to feel me. Can you feel my come inside you, John?” He asked, nosing the exhausted boy’s cheek, making it sound like a great honor to be plugged with his lovers come, _which it is._

John turned his head away, whimpering slightly but there was a slight blush on his face and his lips were quirked into a shy smile. “It feels good doesn’t it?” Sherlock egged him on, touching the flared end of the plug, making the boy jump again from the new sensation. In a few days, John would be so used to wearing it he would feel empty without it, without his Sherlock. The teen nodded shyly and let out a yawn, squirming back towards the heat Sherlock offered and letting his eyes drift closed.

Sherlock let the boy nap, knowing he must be exhausted from the pain killers he’d been given and the thorough fucking his lover just gave him. The detective curled possessively around his young one, keeping watch. Pleased that his brother was taking care of any unwanted trouble from John’s past life so that he could spend his efforts on taking care of John.                  

 


	7. Never Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! I want to apologize for only posting two chapters last week when I normally post three. This was the first time my schooling had to take precedence over my fics ): However, now it is spring break and I will have you guys rolling in so many chapters you won't know what to do!
> 
> This chapter is quite psychologically disturbing, I think, and also has explicit material. I'm sure you have all come to expect those two things but I still like to put up a friendly warning because like I've said before my wish is to entertain (and even offer a warning) not upset or harm anyone.
> 
> Please enjoy(:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV one month after Mycroft's visit.

Chapter 7 – Never Let Me Go

A full month had passed since John first met Sherlock. The teenager had changed more in those thirty one fog-filled days than he had in his entire life. In that month he’d lost his virginity, died, thought his limbs had been amputated, broken his wrist and ankle, cried when his mother abandoned him, laughed when Sherlock tickled him, pointed a gun at the man’s chest, met Mycroft, and learned how incomplete and alone he’d been his entire life until the end of those thirty one days.

Every morning was the same, without fail, and John knew he had Sherlock’s OCD or whatever to thank for the reliability. John would wake up to see two silver eyes staring down at him, some days they would be gentle and patient, which would result in Sherlock lifting up his legs and making love to the boy gently until John felt he was going to cry from the amount of emotion that flowed between them. Other mornings, though, the eyes would be intense and full of scorching lust that scared John sometimes. On those mornings, Sherlock would roll him over onto his belly, careful of his casts still, and open him up quickly and thrust in so fully it hurt and John cried as Sherlock would lick the tears away.

Either way though, whether Sherlock took him hard or soft, John would come with him and then he would feel the anal plug being worked in to keep the man’s seed inside him. He didn’t like it at first, obviously having something shoved up your bum constantly was a problem when you wanted to sit down or go to the bathroom but Sherlock insisted upon it and sucked him off until he stopped complaining.

Then, Sherlock bathed him gently, kissing away any pain he’d caused during their love making. This was John’s favorite part, not because of the warm water, although it did feel wonderful, but because every iota of Sherlock’s attention was focused on him. The man would glide the flannel over his skin, leaving trailing kisses afterwards until John was half hard again. Before John was fully clean, sometimes Sherlock would jerk him off again until he came on his chest and then he would finish wiping him off.

The afternoons, however, usually depended on whether Sherlock had work to do or would spend the day ‘home schooling’ John. If the man had to work, he would allow the teenager to watch the telly or sleep but never get on the laptop. John usually ended up watching telly and then falling asleep on the sofa, only to be carried up to their bed after an hour. He felt tired a lot, almost as if he was living in a haze half the time, which usually didn’t bother him, especially when Sherlock would pull him into his lap and let him fall asleep while the man worked.

Other days, when Sherlock didn’t have work to do, he would teach John about his different experiments and go through math, English, and science. Sometimes, the boy thought back to his teachers talking at him and not caring whether he learned as long as he got a passing grade. When Sherlock taught him things though, they had a conversation, yes, most of the time the man would roll his eyes when John said something wrong but that was only because Sherlock was so smart. Although, John laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair when he’d asked about astronomy and Sherlock had no idea about any of the planets, claiming they weren’t important.

Finally, after they would eat dinner and argue relentlessly over crap television they were watching, as John rested peacefully on Sherlock’s lap, the man would carry him upstairs for bed. Sherlock would remove the plug with the same pleased gasp every time and would gently make love to him, spooning the smaller boy. Unlike their morning sex, which was unpredictable, the evening love making was always slow and sweet as if Sherlock was sated and calmed by the day they’d spent together.

All and all though, John was happy, happier than he’d ever been and he wasn’t alone anymore. Sherlock might not have known the earth revolved around the sun but that didn’t matter when every day it seemed like the man revolved only around John himself. His only complaint was the stupid casts, which prevented him from touching Sherlock, he didn’t care about anything else his appendages could do, John just wanted to touch. However, Sherlock promised him the night before, today was the day he would remove the casts and John would be free to do whatever he wanted. “I just want to touch you,” John whined, staring over at his entire world, who was grinning with some sort of buzz saw in his hands.

“Then we should get these things off you immediately. I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting, now would I?” Sherlock joked, bringing the scary looking saw down to his arm but John didn’t even close his eyes. Why would he, Sherlock would never hurt him, John had been told this over a hundred times and now believed it with his mind, body, and soul. “Close your eyes John, I don’t want anything to accidentally fly into them,” Sherlock warned him and obediently, the boy closed his eyes, resting his head back on the pillow as the screeching got louder and the pressure on his arm grew stronger.

In less than five minutes, Sherlock had removed the hard shell of both casts and started unwrapping the protective cloth exposing pale skin. “Wonderful, how do they feel John?” Sherlock asked rubbing his hands over the skin, sending shivers up John’s spine at the first contact the skin had seen in a month. “Hmmm, sensitive I see,” the man chuckled, “perhaps I should lock your cock up so it can’t be touched for a month.”

“No!” John’s head shot up immediately, ready to beg for Sherlock not to torture him like he did with the cock ring. It did feel good at the end, the final explosion when Sherlock removed the piece of silicone, but the wait was so infuriating. However, he was learning, at least that’s what Sherlock had told him, because they had done it enough times for John to finally realize all he had to do was lie back and trust his lover to take care of him, which he always did.

“No?” Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, finally removing the last of the cloth, “well, I think you’re right. I couldn’t go a full week without being able to taste you, John.” _Phew, crisis averted._ Suddenly, Sherlock’s nose scrunched up and his head pulled away from the boy’s legs. _Oh no, what’s wrong, what did I do?_ “I believe a shower is in order, my dear John. You have layer upon layer of dead skin, which has built up under the cast causing your arm and leg to smell like sweaty feet.”

John laughed, relieved he hadn’t done anything to upset Sherlock, and tried to kick him with his newly freed foot. It didn’t hurt when it made contact with the man’s shoulder but it felt very weak and sore. “Ah ah, none of that,” Sherlock walked over and picked him up. Instead of flinching, John put his good arm out and tried to lift his other to wrap around the man’s neck as he was carried safely to the bathroom. “You are still going to be a little sore and your muscles are going to be weak until we get them back to normal. Don’t worry, I have a few fun ways to move that process right along,” John felt a sharp nip at his ear, causing his cock to automatically stir as if it was conditioned to every touch from Sherlock. “I think we’ll stop the painkillers for now but if you feel strange at all, let me know and I’ll take care of it, yeah?” John nodded against the warm chest as he felt his feet touch down on the tile floor. “Here, hold onto the wall for a second and try to stand while I undress you.”

John did his best but his leg was getting tired and sore quickly until he was lifted into a familiar bubble bath, lying on top of Sherlock. The water felt amazing on his arm and leg, which had avoided any liquid over the past month. The smooth large hand ran soap through his hair, which had grown at tad longer as well and had even taken a slight curl at his nape. “Why don’t you wash your leg while I finish up here? I don’t know how sore it still is and I don’t want to apply to much pressure, yeah?”

John did as he was told, rubbing slowly along the skin of his leg and arm while Sherlock finished his hair, back and chest. Then he felt the tell-tale sign of their bath coming to an end when a soapy warm finger pressed into him from beneath. This part didn’t hurt anymore, in fact, it was quite soothing to feel the friction and mild burn, which foretold that Sherlock would be inside him within five minutes. “I’m so glad you’re okay, John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear and John jolted when a second finger entered, hitting his prostate, which he had come to realize was his favorite body part, besides is cock, when Sherlock taught him about biology.

“You-you’re the only reason I’m okay,” he moaned, feeling a third finger, knowing this morning was going to be one of the gently ones, as Sherlock put his hands under John’s armpits and turned him around so the boy was straddling his hips. That beautiful blue fog entered his mind, ensuring everything was okay and safe while he was in his lover’s arms.

“My little soldier all put back together again,” Sherlock pulled him up, forcing them chest to chest as John placed his arms around the man’s neck and his knees sat on the bottom of the tub. “Just for me,” he felt Sherlock’s cock slowly slip in, stretching painfully and making him grip the wavy brown hair tightly with his good hand and loosely with his recovering one. “All for me,” he heard again when he felt his arse come into contact with Sherlock’s thighs, meaning he was fully seated on the man.

“Fuck,” John cursed when he was picked up slightly and floated back down onto the cock from both gravity and the firm pressure on his hips.

“My John, my John,” Sherlock chanted as the thrusts became faster. The first time he’d actually listened to the words spilling from the man’s lips, John panicked at the possessiveness he heard and felt. Later though, it became a way of life, a comfort when he felt he had nothing to hold onto. If nothing else, if his mother didn’t cried at his funeral, if Mike didn’t try to contact him, if everyone thought he was dead and didn’t give a flying fuck about it…at least he belonged somewhere and to someone who John knew would never let him go. This was his life now and John cherished the way Sherlock held him tighter and whispered “I love you,” over and over again in his ear when he felt hot come shoot into his body as his own release escaped him and landed on Sherlock’s chest and face.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” John panicked when he saw the obscene white goo splattered on the man’s cheek and chin. Before he could reach the flannel to wipe it off, however, Sherlock pulled his finger over his face and licked the come off greedily with a wide grin.

“God you taste so good, John. You feel so good,” the man below him moaned and thrust up once more and then pulled out slowly. This…this was the worst part of John’s day, the emptiness, the coldness, he was alone again and there was a chance he could float off into space, into a place where not even Sherlock could find him. “Shhh, it’s okay, we’ll use the plug next time, John,” Sherlock cooed, holding him and stroking his wet hair as the boy’s cheek rested on his shoulder. “Let’s see if you can walk downstairs on your own, yeah. Then,” he pulled the boy back to look at him, “if you make it, you can get on the laptop if you want. How does that sound?”

“Yeah,” John smiled again, playing idly with the small dark hairs that led from Sherlock’s belly button down.

“Good,” Sherlock replied, placing one more kiss on the boy’s lips, making him chase after it to make the contact last longer and then picked him up to stand as he dried them both off.

When they were both clean, dry, and dressed in baggy pajama clothes, well Sherlock was fully dressed but he always insisted John was too gorgeous to be covered up so only gave him pants he’d bought for him, which were similar to the ones John had bought at the sports store so many years… _no months…no only a month ago._ The teen wasn’t self-conscious anymore, at least not about his body, after many ‘punishment sessions’ with Sherlock, which consisted of not being allowed to come until the man believed it when John said he agreed when Sherlock called him beautiful.

“Okay, now I’m going to go down in front of you. If you think you’re going to fall, tell me and I’ll catch you,” Sherlock told him as they stood at the top of the stairs.

“I know you will,” John smiled up at him, meaning every word he said because he learned a long time ago there was no need to lie to Sherlock, to his lover, who always seemed to understand what he meant even when John himself didn’t know what he was trying to say. Slowly, he stepped down each step, his legs wobbling a bit but they stayed under him until he finally made it to the bottom and into Sherlock’s strong arms.

“Such a strong boy,” Sherlock cooed in his ear, warming him from the inside out because the same way John never lied to Sherlock, he knew Sherlock never lied to him either. “Let’s get you on the couch so you can play on the laptop, like promised. I’m going to work on a few experiments in the kitchen then I’ll make us lunch. How does that sound?”

“As long as you wash your hands before you start cooking. The tomato soup smelled like formaldehyde yesterday,” John laughed then squealed when Sherlock abruptly picked him up and walked him over to the sofa. When he set the boy down, he bent forward taking John into a deep dominating kiss until the teen sat breathless.

Sherlock put the computer on John’s lap, gave a quick kiss to the top of his head and then left for the kitchen. John turned it on, staring at the screen and trying to remember why he wanted to use the laptop so badly a couple of weeks ago. He shrugged, hoping the thought would come to him if he played a few card games and cruised the internet for a while. After about thirty minutes or so, he still didn’t remember and put it out of his mind because it couldn’t have been that important if the memory didn’t come.

When he double clicked in the URL address bar at the top of the screen, a list of frequently visited sites popped up, the chat room where they first met showing at the very bottom of the list. _I wonder if Mike is still on there? Do I even want to talk to that arse, though? What if he is on there, what am I going to say? ‘Hey, thanks for not even trying to call my mobile when you found out I was missing, really appreciate it mate.’_ He glanced over at Sherlock, who, as usual, was murmuring to himself and engrossed in his microscope. _Couldn’t hurt, I just want to see if he’s on there._

John signed in under the username JT2000, for John Thomas, instead of his old one of Goalie2000. He looked up and down on the list of logged in users but MikeAttack wasn’t one of them. Just as soon as he was about to log out, angrier than before as memories of being abandoned threatened to creep into his brain, a private message popped up from a user named StripedTiger.

**StripedTiger: Hey**

John hesitated, his fingers frozen on the keyboard. This was the first contact he’d had with anybody except for Sherlock and the one visit from Mycroft. _It’s not a big deal, I’m not going to do anything but chat. I want to know why this guy PMed me, too._

**JT2000: Hey**

**StripedTiger: What does JT stand for?**

There was no way he was going to tell this stranger his name, no, Sherlock definitely wouldn’t approve.

**StripedTiger: Is it for John Thomas?**

_What the fuck? Who is this guy?_

**JT2000: Who are u?**

**StripedTiger: My name’s not important but I was told to give you this link and phone # to call when u decide 2. CLICK ME +44 20 7437 1548**

Suddenly, StripedTiger signed out, leaving John to stare at the blue hyperlink and the phone number to God knows who. John didn’t know what made him clink the link, whether just plane curiosity or something more but his finger moved over and clicked.

A page from the local newspaper in Wembley loaded and John couldn’t stop the gasp that came from his throat. The title read **LOCAL CHILD THOUGHT TO HAVE COMMITED SUICIDE FOUND WITH NO MEMORY ONE YEAR LATER.** John continued reading about the 15 year old boy named Victor Trevor who Sherlock claimed broke his heart. According to the article though, the police had found a suicide not from Victor… _just like me. I…I’m not special…I’m not the only one._ With fourteen bold printed words, John’s happy world crumbled in around him and this time, he didn’t know if even Sherlock could keep him from being crushed into a million pieces.

“John,” Sherlock called to him from the kitchen, his face concerned at the site of the boy who was paler than bleached parchment. “What’s wrong?”

John looked up at the man he loved with every molecule of his being, loved him more than rainy days and misty mornings, more than snowy days with star filled nights, more than the sun hitting his face just right and the wind blowing his hair back when he picked up speed on his longboard. He loved Sherlock more than any of this things stacked up into an entire lifetime. His eyes burned with unshed tears when the realization hit him that in one year, _eleven months,_ Sherlock would grow tired of him too, wipe his memories somehow and return him like a broken down toy with no warranty. _What’s wrong…_ ”Me,” he whispered.       

 


	8. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV directly after chapter seven. Sherlock does some damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you so much for all the amazing feedback and kudos. I still can't believe how many hits and kudos this fic has received, it makes my heart happy(:
> 
> So I'm guessing four or five more chapters after this one, don't quote me on that but this part of the story is definitely coming to a close. Although there are still going to be quite a few more twists and turns, which is always good I think.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update!

Chapter 8 – Ghosts

John seemed to shrink into the sofa further as Sherlock approached the small boy with a laptop sitting on his lap. ‘Me,’ John had said when he was asked what was wrong, _me?_ Sherlock walked slowly towards John, who was now so pale he thought the teenager might disappear altogether.

“John, let me see the laptop,” he made his voice firm, knowing that in the fragile state John was in, the boy would surly grasp onto the familiar tone and go into the autopilot Sherlock had built for his mind. Although the detective had never been one to believe in coincidences, the fact that the evidence of Dr. John B. Watson’s 1920 experiments on behaviorism and his ‘stimuli and response’ theory were now being used on the old John H. Watson to condition his actions, was quite interesting indeed. It was as if the Gods themselves desired them to be together as they provided all the right tools for Sherlock to ring the bell and make John’s mouth water. Although, comparing John to Pavlov’s dog was quite distasteful, to say the least, but there was a hint of similarity.

Another gift from the Heavens above was that Sherlock had discovered his John desired and could possibly live off of praise, especially from his lover. It made the shift from captor and captured to lover and lover easy on both him and the teenager who melted every time he’d been called a ‘good boy’ or a ‘brave boy.’ He had to admit to himself that the praising and positive rewards had been used in overkill, even for him, but when John’s eyes went from depressed or sad to happy or even bashful…well, let’s just say John’s body wasn’t the only thing Sherlock had become addicted to. In all honesty, he knew he had come to depend on the boy just as much as John had come to depend on him for life support.

The past month had been the most beautiful, fulfilling, and calming time Sherlock had ever experienced. John’s eyes told him any good memories of his life before were gone, only bad or none at all reminded the boy of why it was best he stay at Baker Street. That is why Sherlock had decided to take off the casts, although it could have been done weeks ago, he still wasn’t positive his boy wouldn’t try to run. When John said the only reason he wanted the cast off was so he could touch him during their love making though, that tipped the scale and Sherlock decided it was time to open the cage door and see if his little bird would stay. There was no doubt in his mind, however, the physical and mental…persuasion he’d put John through ensured they would be together forever.

Though now, as he looked at the small beautiful face staring at him, Sherlock could see the walls he’d worked so hard to break down coming up and hiding his John away again. This was the first time the detective ever admitted he’d made a mistake. Removing the casts, no, that was definitely not a mistake but letting him on that stupid computer, exposing him to outside influences at this early stage in their relationship was the worst move he could have ever made. _Time for damage control._

“Please,” he said as he slowly grasped the laptop, making sure not to frighten the boy into doing something rash. John had always been a huge boulder sitting on the edge of a cliff just waiting to tumble down. However, over the past month Sherlock had done his best to build stilts and braces under the unsteady boy but when there are gusts of wind and monsters with saws out there trying desperately to cut away the supports, it was almost impossible to keep him safe. 

When Sherlock turned the computer around and saw the news article, everything became clear. _Moriarty!_ “I want to call Mycroft,” John said, his tone sterner than the detective thought was possible. Even though the fierce look on the boy’s face looked adorable, what with his tiny nose and the lines trying to form on his brow, Sherlock kept a serious face as he stared back him. His brother was the last option, Sherlock decided, it would be best to try and defuse the situation on his own. If Mycroft got involved now, he would be checking in every week and possibly have one of his minions act as surveillance for the couple.

“That’s not necessary love, just talk to me,” he cooed reaching out to touch the boy’s trembling hand but was met by his own laptop flying at his head. _John?!_ He quickly threw his head back, avoiding the awkward bulky object and grabbed it in one hand and John’s wrist in the other. “John, you need to calm down,” Sherlock snapped but let the boy’s hand go when it was yanked back. Blue eyes stared up at him even as they became flooded with unshed tears. Anger was expected, obviously a result of being lied to, but there was no anger in those young eyes, only sorrow and betrayal…and fear.

Sherlock didn’t understand until the boy spoke through endless sobs. “Y-You lied to m-m-me! Y-You said I was spe-special.” _Oh God, how could he ever think I would lie about that? My John, mine!_ The detective had never been this panicked or confused before in his entire life and that scared the living piss out of him, causing his mind to wage an all-out nuclear war within the lobes and cortexes. The calm and beautiful John he depended on was no longer in his own sanity to sign the peace treaties and calm the waves in his mind. _I have to fix this. I can’t live without him. I CAN’T!_  

“You are special John, you’re everything, my everything, you are nothing like Victor” he reassured the boy, sitting down next to him and tugging him closer with an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t!” he shouted, his face red as he shoved Sherlock away. He stood up, wobbling a bit on his bad leg, “I bet that’s ex-exactly what you told him, too!” John pointed at the screen, his face contorted into a sick and horrifying version of its normal beauty.

“John, please, let me explain. Calm down and let’s talk this over like adults, yeah,” Sherlock stood up slowly, attempting to play the ‘youth’ card that had worked so well on his boy before. This time though, his effort was met with John turning his back on him and running as fast as he could upstairs.

Without thinking, Sherlock dropped the laptop, which he would burn later, and sprinted up after the wayward teenager. Hopefully, he would be able to talk some since into him and salvage a month’s worth of hard work. “John!” he shouted when he saw the skinnier leg give way under the force of the boy’s running. In one swift movement, with both John’s safety and knowing this was the best way to rebuild trust on his mind, Sherlock leapt up three steps and caught the falling boy in his arms. His back hit the wall but their descent had been halted and now John continued to struggle in the make shift bear hug he’d used to catch him.

“Leave me alone, Sherlock! I want to call Mycroft, he said I could call him whenever I wanted. Now get off of me!” John thrashed as Sherlock carried him up to their bed, easily controlling and dodging the swinging limbs. It might be best to call his brother but first, he wanted to see if being in their bed would calm the boy enough so Sherlock could work out the true origin of this outburst. _You can’t help feeling safe and if I might add, horny when you’re on my bed, can you John? Simple stimulus and response, my love, don’t be scared, you can’t help it._ One thing was for sure though, he would not be leaving John alone, ever.

“Shhh, calm down,” he whispered over the loud sobs, placing John on their bed and draping himself over him when the boy tried to get away. John was on his back panting, while Sherlock was lying on his stomach with one arm draped over the small chest, the other carding through the blonde hair and, just for extra stimulation, a large thigh over the boy’s groin. When the fruitless struggles stopped, Sherlock finally spoke, his lips only centimeters from John’s ear. “John, tell me what’s wrong. Haven’t I proven you can count on me,” he didn’t wait for a nod, “but you know I can’t fix things when I don’t know what they are, right?” He started rubbing his thumb gently over a small light nipple, coaxing it into hardness and preventing John from coming up with any negatives about their past relationship.

After a long pause, John turned his head to look at him and Sherlock worried if he exhaled too hard he might break the fragile boy into a million unmarked pieces. “Please…” the teenager sobbed, squeezing his eyes closed, forcing the pooling tears to run down his cheeks. “Please…”

“What John, anything, you know I’d do anything for you,” he encouraged, having no idea what the boy was asking for but praying it wasn’t to go home _because that is not going to happen, John_. “John,” he whispered again and kissed away a few of the stray tears before they left dark navy splotches on the light blue pillow case.

“Please…please, don’t leave me,” he cried struggling again against Sherlock’s arm but this time it was to get closer to the man instead of running away. When he felt those shaking arms wrap themselves around his waist and the warm wet cheeks press against his chest, realization finally dawned on the detective. John wasn’t angry at being lied to, no, no his poor sweet beautiful John was worried he’d be subjected to the same fate as Victor Trevor and be sent back to live his old life, alone and empty.

Oh, this, this was just so perfect there was no way Sherlock could have planned it any better. _Perhaps Moriarty planned this all along? Though it is more probable that the Spider underestimated the bond between me and my John._ “Shhh,” he whispered into the soft hair, stroking John’s back in slow circles and waiting until the loud sobs turned into quite sniffling.

Sherlock had observed John for the past month, gauged his reactions, and watched how the intent behind his eyes had changed in order to calculate exactly when the final break took place. One large chunk had fallen off when they made love for the first time in the shower and little cracks appeared every time he entered the boy after that. Then, another when he tried to call his mother and of course there was no answer. Sherlock had been afraid this event had left a hole instead of only a crack but when John had pointed the gun at him, crying helplessly on the floor, he knew their love was the only glue that would be strong enough to put him back together.

Honestly, Sherlock believed when his boy dropped the gun and let his lover hand feed him was the final breaking point, which would cause the tectonic plates in John’s brain to shift and create new plains, rivers, and mountains for only the two of them to graze. Now though, it seemed his John still harbored some form of fear and uncertainty when it came to their relationship that remained dormant until just a few moments ago. Sherlock inhaled deeply, forming a giant drawing board in his head with all the information he needed to convince John how different he was from Victor.   

“John,” he pulled the boy back far enough so they could look each other in the eye but their legs and arms were still tangled together, forming what looked like pale Wisteria vines creeping up the bed. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. What I’m about to tell you might upset you but I want you to know it is the truth. I have one condition,” Sherlock used his thumb to wipe away a stray tear on the soft cheek, “you are not allowed to say anything or leave until I’m done talking, do you understand?”

“Uh-huh,” John nodded slightly, his lips trembling as he tried to hold back more tears. _Oh John._ Sherlock sighed at the sight in front of him, it irritated the detective at how much empathy he felt for this human being, this one boy who was simple in every aspect and at the same time extraordinary in all ways. He could feel his heart ache and he hated it, swearing he would find a way to forbid John from feeling these horrible emotions, which were then inadvertently evoked upon Sherlock himself.   

“Good boy,” he praised, bringing his John into the proper mindset to accept what Sherlock was saying. “Victor Trevor was a boy a year older than you, who I met a couple of years ago when I had a case in Wembley.” Sherlock lied, deciding it was best to increase the differences and decrease the similarities between the two boys even though their meeting circumstances were identical. “We began talking through text messaging and emails, he was a very nice young man and I did care for him and I think he cared for me as well. He was from a very rich family and already had a spot at Oxford or Cambridge when the time came.” A truth and a very powerful one at that, considering how much John wanted to help his mother out with finances. “We decided to meet after a couple of months of communication and we had sex, it was his first time as was it mine.”

“But you-“John started to say but was cut off when Sherlock went in for a deep kiss, biting slightly at the smaller bottom lip.

“John,” he warned with a small grin, showing he wasn’t angry but would allow for no more interruptions. The boy dramatically closed his moth with a clack of his teeth and Sherlock saw the smallest hint of a smile. _Yes, that’s it John, come back to me. Come back to your Sherlock._ “I had never been interested in sex before, my work was my life and I felt no need until I met Victor.” Sherlock added a tone to his voice similar to when he mentioned the morons like Anderson or the idiotic people on the crap telly they watched together, so John’s subconscious would register the boy behind the name meant nothing to the detective. When it came down to it, it was true, at least compared to John those people meant nothing to him, just silly ghosts wondering around.   

“After a while I asked him if he wanted to stay with me and he said yes but was worried, just like you, about his parents. So we came up with a plan to make it look like a suicide, that way he could live with me but also offer his parents closure. But then…” Sherlock stopped, lowering his eyes as if the bad memories were almost too much for him to bear. Within seconds, his action was rewarded with the sweet boy entangled with him gripping his hand and squeezing, ensuring his lover it was okay to be sad. _That’s my boy._ “Then he decided he didn’t love me anymore and wanted to go back to his rich life and ‘high society.’” Sherlock knew it was best to play up the fact Victor didn’t love him and had a better place to be because that, at the end of the day, was what made John different. His John lived a life of mediocrity with the burden of being the load bearing wall for the weak pathetic fools around him.

“I-I didn’t want him to go but he wanted to leave. Then, he ran away,” _well, technically he was coerced and then kidnapped by Moriarty but something’s are best left unsaid, yes?_ “He claimed he didn’t remember anything over the past year, all the time we spent together…” Sherlock worked a few tears out of his silver eyes, “oh John, I’m so sorry I lied to you. I just wanted to forget that time in my life, I gave him my heart and he was able to forget about an entire year like it was nothing. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He closed his eyes, waiting for that comforting small hand and when it finally touched his face, Sherlock knew he’d beaten Moriarty. Although, most of the credit was owed to his John, the kind loving heart that calmed his lover’s mind so effortlessly. With this loving gesture, the detective decided it was best to leave the story at that and deny John the full truth and save him from the more…ugly details of what happened with Victor. There was just no need to upset the boy more, after all.

Sherlock lifted his hand to cover John’s, which lay motionless on his cheekbone. “If-if you want to leave me too…I-I’ll understand, John. I just want you to be happy,” he whispered, having no intention of letting the boy go but he knew given the choice, John would never leave, not now.

“Sherlock,” a watery voice sobbed next to him.

“I made a mistake John, a stupid mistake. I gave my heart away and it was shattered and I thought I could never be whole again…until I met you. The first time I saw your picture John, the first time I felt you from the inside, held you in my arms, fed you those scones, kissed you, tasted you, I felt whole again. John, I don’t know if my heart could handle you leaving but if you don’t,” he paused, swallowed, and wiped his eyes, “if you don’t feel the same way, I don’t want to force you to stay with me.” This was it, Sherlock knew, the final crack in John’s mind had been made by Moriarty’s foolish meddling. Now, the only thing left to do was to wait and see if the new structure they’ve spent a month building would hold up against the tsunami of evil in the world.

“I love you Sherlock,” the boy whispered, a slight smile on his face. _Beautifully done, John._ “I won’t ever break your heart, I promise,” John’s smile became wider, removing any residual pain from Sherlock’s heart and finally bringing his mind to rest once again.

“I know you won’t, my sweet brave boy,” Sherlock praised and pulled the boy in closer, cherishing his victory of John’s heart, mind, and no to mention Moriarty’s challenge. Sherlock had won.     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in conditioning and behavior science, which was talked about in the beginning of this chapter, here are a few interesting sites I used as reference. http://www.muskingum.edu/~psych/psycweb/history/watson.htm  
> http://psychology.about.com/od/behavioralpsychology/a/classcond.htm


	9. Shake it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV directly after chapter eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again everyone! I know I say this every time but I really do appreciate all the support, comments, and kudos you guys have left for this fic. I'm not one of those writers who can just write for themselves or just write for the sake of art. I love hearing what y'all have to say and all the different opinions and POVs. Sorry, enough with the ooey gooey fluffy stuff. On to Dark!Sherlock, although this chapter is a bit fluffier than most because as you can tell, I'm in a very sentimental mood right now(: 
> 
> Also, my plan is to have two more chapters (but they are probably going to be very long. LoL), ending with John's POV, and then an epilogue with Sherlock's POV, which will not be a parallel chapter but will only serve to 'fill in the holes,' so to speak. I am contemplating some new ideas to continue this series but I will most likely take a short hiatus so I can focus on another fic I've been wanting to start. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 9 – Shake It Out

“Sherlock,” John whispered into the warm chest, tightening his arms around the man’s waist.

“Hmm,” the answer rumbled through his cheek.

“I’m sorry I went on the chat room,” John apologized for the fifth time. It was just so stupid and honestly, when he replayed the events in his mind, there was absolutely no reason, no excuse, for going on that site. All his childish action had done was bring about horrible memories for Sherlock and ruin the trust that had built between them. _Why do I do these stupid things? Think before you act John or else you’re going to ruin this whole thing like you do with everything else._

The boy was brought out of his internal musings by a sharp noise and then a slight burn on his thigh. “Stop it John, stop it this instant,” Sherlock’s voice was stern, leaving no room to argue his way out of what was so obviously going on in his head.

“I’m sorry, I just-“

“I know,” he hushed him, pulling John’s head away from the warmth created between the two bodies. “It’s okay for you to be curious and get into things. That’s what teenagers do, I would never be angry about that, John. I am upset that you didn’t trust me enough to come to me first so we could do it together. Then, there would be no need for tears or you almost falling down the stairs and breaking your skull open. Really John, you and that staircase are not friends,” Sherlock chuckled, making everything seem alright again. “You don’t have to deal with these things on your own anymore, John. Do you know why?”

 John put his face down so he didn’t have to look at those all-knowing eyes. He knew the answer, of course he did, Sherlock had repeated it over and over again until sometimes he could hear it in his dreams. “It’s hard,” the boy whispered because it was, it was one of the hardest things he ever had to do. To trust someone, to allow them to take responsibility for things that should be his, and his alone to bear, was just too hard. How could he put such burdens on Sherlock, the man he loved with all his heart and soul, he had to protect the man who would do anything for him, that’s who he was.

“I’m not your mum, John,” Sherlock grabbed his face, firmly holding him so he couldn’t hide away. “I’m not Mike, I’m not your coach, I’m not one of your school mates. Do you understand?”

John nodded slightly but it still didn’t matter, he would never hurt Sherlock and would do his best to- “Stop it, John!” Sherlock snapped, rolling him over on his back and straddling his hips, caging him in with his lanky body and strong arms as he hovered a few inches above the small boy. “You do not need to pretend to be happy or strong or brave or content or force anything you don’t feel when you’re with me…and you don’t need to protect me from your burdens because they are now mine to bear as well. All I want is you John, if you are sad, be sad and I will do my best to make you laugh. If you are lonely, be lonely and I will hold you, if you are cold, be cold and I will warm you, if you are hungry, be hungry and I will feed you. You, John, I want you, do not deny me of the real boy I love. Now, do not lie to me again, do you understand?”

John stared up at him, his eyes filling with tears again as the words danced around their bodies and branded themselves in his mind. _Stop crying, damn it. Why am I always crying!_ “And if you feel like crying, then cry and I shall kiss the tears away,” Sherlock whispered, doing exactly what he said he would do and pressing his lips to John’s cheek.

“Sh-Sherlock, I-I…I understand,” he forced out while the knot in his throat grew larger. With a final kiss, just below his left eye, John realized he would never be alone again in carrying his weight.

“Good boy,” the silver eyes smiled down at him, warming every part of his body from the inside out. “Now,” Sherlock’s tone became stern but John saw a hint of mischief in the man’s eyes as they looked down at him. “John, I think you owe me an apology for trying to hit me in the head with my own laptop…my own laptop!” he emphasized, and a wicked grin came over his face when he rolled off the teenager and fell onto his back.

John couldn’t stop the sigh of relief, his chest sinking back down and the lump in his throat slowly waning at just the thought of getting back to normal and pleasing Sherlock. “I think I can do that,” he put on his best sexy voice, which usually made the man laugh rather than moan but Sherlock told him it was getting better. He sat up and started working his way down to pull the man’s pants off, when two hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him up to lay chest to chest on top of Sherlock.

“You know what I want, John?” His voice dropped an octave, making John shiver instead of giggle. _Now that is a sexy voice._ The boy shook his head, trying to go in for a kiss but was held back by the hands on his shoulders. Soft lips rose up to touch his ear and whispered, “I want you inside me.” _What?!_ Sherlock grinned at him and in a blink of an eye, both their pants were removed and the baggy shirt the man wore was on the ground. Then, when John blinked again he was lying on his back with Sherlock straddling his stomach and somehow there was lube on those long fingers and he was stroking both their cocks with the same rhythm.  

“Sherlock, wait,” John put his hands on the pale chest, moaning slightly with a particularly tight squeeze at the tip of his cock. He didn’t know if he could do this, it was one thing to let Sherlock take him but now it was his responsibility to-

“John! I won’t tell you again,” Sherlock smacked him on the thigh again, bringing a comical image to John’s mind of Sherlock riding a horse and whipping it to go faster. _Sherlock in a cowboy hat? Now that’s one for the books!_ Sherlock’s face tightened then went lax, and then tightened again in concentration as he jerked them both into hardness and worked himself open. _I should be doing that._ “Trust me and don’t come until I tell you.” In one swift movement, the ivory body, which seemed much larger when John was lying on his back, moved slowly into a sitting position over John with his knees digging deliciously into his ribs. When he felt a hand around his hard member, John jumped and the next thing he knew the tip was pressed into a slick warm heat.

“Oh God,” he squeezed his eyes together as he felt pressure and warmth envelope thousands of his most sensitive nerves. When Sherlock was fully seated, John felt the hollows of his pelvic bone hold and caress the man’s cheeks perfectly. Surprisingly, the tall fully grown man didn’t seem that heavy. “Sherlock,” he sounded breathless, he felt breathless too, as he was held so tightly and securely under someone who loved him.

“John, you’re so good,” to John’s relief, Sherlock sounded just as breathless as him when he braced his hands on the sides of the teenagers head and started moving forward and backward. “I want you to give me everything, John, everything,” his thrusts became faster, moving himself on the boy and gazing intently down at him. Every time the teenager tried to lift his hips up to meet his lover’s thrusts as an attempt to reach the man’s prostate, he received a harsh slap, which strangely egged him on even more; until finally, Sherlock placed both his hands over the tan stomach, letting out a harsh grunt and preventing John from moving at all. “No, John,” Sherlock leaned forward, resting his weight on the boy’s chest, wrapping his arms under him, and then stopped moving all together while John was still buried all the way inside.

John literally cried out when the friction stopped, the heat coming from his groin and from inside Sherlock was too unbearable. He needed Sherlock to move, now! “Sherlock, why…oh, God…please,” he tried to thrust up again but the weight from the man’s upper body had him pinned and helpless until Sherlock decided to move again.

“Shhh, I’ll take care of you, John, do you trust me?” The deep voice whispered into his ear, making his cock twitch in the small space. He gave a few more huffs and desperate attempts to pump himself up into the infuriating man. _It’s not fair, how does he have so much self-control._ When he heard Sherlock laughing above him, John finally went lax, understanding the point that was trying to be made, which kind of pissed him off even more because it took him so long to catch on, not to mention he’d fallen right into the older man’s trap. The young boy looked up, nodded twice then laid his head back to wait for Sherlock to take care of him.

“That’s my boy,” the praise washed over him and finally, _oh thank God,_ Sherlock began moving slowly forwards and back along John’s angry cock. “Even when you think it’s your responsibility,” he sped up, practically bruising the boy’s hip bones, “it’s not, it’s mine now, John, it’s mine. You. Are. Mine.” John felt himself coiling tighter, his bullocks rising up as he watched Sherlock’s head moving closer and back, closer and back in tandem with the pleasure in his groin. “Come in me, John, it’s not yours anymore, it’s mine,” Sherlock growled and shoved himself all the way down, engulfing John’s cock completely, bringing a shout from the boy. Then, John came harder than he’d ever done before, feeling himself spasm against the tight walls as his seed flowed in the back down onto his thighs. It was as if all his worries had shot deep into Sherlock and were now coming back out, cleansed and sated as they should be.  

He figured he looked like a beached fish flopping and shivering around on the bed but none of that matter, at least not when the loud moans above him approved so wholly of his actions. “Mine!” Sherlock shouted and then there were warm streaks hitting his belly, chest, and face. When John opened his eyes he saw pearly white come spread over him and a large leaking cock deflating in Sherlock’s hand. He was marked, _he thinks I’m worth marking._ John smiled, matching the sated grin on the other man’s face.

The next thing John knew, he was practically swaddled in their duvet in Sherlock’s arms being rocked like a baby. He couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his lips at how silly they probably looked. It didn’t matter though, if he looked silly, or dumb, or cute as long as Sherlock wanted to hold him…well, then that made it good. “Sherlock,” John asked sleepily.

“Yes your penis is of adequate size and girth, John, please don’t ask to compare measurements,” Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, a small smile on his face. This time, John laughed out loud at the first inaccurate assumption of what he was about to ask. “What, isn’t that what boy’s worry about?” The man asked, confused at the boy’s reaction to what he thought was supposed to be a serious subject.

“Well, yes, I guess so, that’s not what I was going to ask, though.”

“Oh, my apologies, I still have ‘John’ on the mind, penis included,” Sherlock’s smile widened, finally looking down at him.

“There…um…” John stuttered, trying his best to show Sherlock he did trust him to take care of things. Thankfully, the detective gave him the time to work up the courage and figure out what he wanted to say. “The phone number...I mean, there was a phone number with the link,” he blurted out in one breathe, feeling the heavy weight on his shoulders lift and fly off to a place that didn’t matter.

“I saw that,” was all he got from the man. No, ‘why didn’t you tell me sooner,’ or ‘of course there was, don’t be stupid, John;’ instead, there was only acknowledgment and a pause to let the boy continue.

His confidence building, John continued with his line of questioning. “Do, um, do you know who it was…I mean, do you know who StripedTiger is and why they sent me that stuff?”

Sherlock sighed, a sad look coming across his face that made a small pit grow in John’s stomach as if they had a direct line of empathy with each other. “I have a theory, yes, but I will need some more evidence to confirm my suspicions.” The handsome face above him became serious and John knew Sherlock was dying to steeple his hands under his chin and go into his mind palace. Except, he didn’t make any move to leave, he just stayed their holding John in his arms, swaying slowly.

He couldn’t help himself, “you’re really sexy when you go into your ‘Detective Mode, you know that?” John laughed, trying to bring the mood back up.

“I have been told that before, yes,” Sherlock dead panned, giving an easy smile but then his face went serious again.

“Is it that guy who visited you earlier, the…’not very nice friend?’”

“I think so, yes.”

“Why…why would he care about us, me, why would he send me those things?”

“He’s insane,” was all Sherlock said, but it was the first time John had ever seen a hint of fear in those brilliant silver eyes.

“Insane? Like, talks to himself kind of crazy or the little people in his head tell him to burn things kind of crazy?”

“Worse.”

_Worse? Oh God, how could it be worse?_ “Sherlock, you’re scaring me,” John was really getting the hang of this honesty thing and was thankful for it as well. Hell, if he had to deal with a psychopath it was nice to not have to deal with it alone. “What does he want with you?”

“He doesn’t want me, John,” Sherlock looked at him, no longer just a hint of fear though, now there was a world of terror radiating from the man’s body. “He’s jealous and wants what I have.”

“Which is…what?” John watched intently, scared of what the answer was going to be.

“You, John, he wants you.

              

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I am addicted to cliffhangers, how did you know?


	10. The Hardest of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock devise a plan to rid themselves of Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thanks again for all the comments and kudos. I really appreciate all of the support. 
> 
> This chapter is very dark and has some violence and creepy psychological manifestations...you'll see what I mean, but it is quite disturbing so prepare yourselves(:
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update!

Chapter 10 – The Hardest of Hearts

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, holding the warm swaddled boy in his arms, humming no tune in particular. The sound of their breathing created the tempo and provided enough background noise to allow the detective to devise a way to protect his John from the darkest monster he’d ever known. “Sherlock,” the small voice, which seemed even smaller now, whispered up to him, breaking his train of thought. Normally, Sherlock would become frustrated and snap at the interruption but for now he welcomed the chance to calm his mind for a moment.

“Yes?” Sherlock looked down at the deep blue eyes peering out, noting the seriousness in the boy’s features.

“We have to catch this guy, right? I mean, you’re a detective that’s what you do,” John said, untucking one of his arms to pull back the cover from his face a little. The way the boy looked at him tugged at his heart but also filled it with pride, knowing that John trusted him fully now to take care of this threat; and he would, even though the only way to get rid of a spider was to stomp on it, Sherlock would do anything to keep John safe.

“’We’ are not doing anything, John, but yes, ‘I’ will catch him and take care of the threat.” There was no way in hell he would let his boy anywhere near that psychopath. Suddenly, John’s eyes got huge, his mouth turning into a giant ‘O’ shape as he started to wiggle and squirm his way out of Sherlock’s grip. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked but helped the boy stand, chuckling how he held the duvet over his tan chest like a toga.

“No, that’s it, don’t you see? He wants me, so I can be the bait and then you can catch him, it’s perfect!” John shouted, a wide smile growing on his face as he waited for Sherlock’s approval. However, that approval would not come, would never come when John tried to revert back to his old ways of being the martyr. The detective’s face grew dark as he stared down the boy until John’s smile turned to a frown. “It’s the only way, Sherlock,” he tried once more. The rub of it was though that yes, of course it was a brilliant plan. Talk to Moriarty at the chat room, make him think he was talking to John, convince him the boy was angry at Sherlock and wanted to go home, and then the spider would leave its web and come to his to be exterminated. _NO! I cannot put John in danger like that, I can’t!_

“No, John, I will come up with something else. I am not letting that man anywhere near you.”

“Is it because you don’t trust me? You think I’ll go with him and leave,” the boy asked, looking down at his feet and playing with the hem of the comforter. For a moment, Sherlock became angry at John for manipulating him, using his own heart and feelings for the boy against him. _That’s not what my John does. He’s not like me._ The detective realized that John meant every word he said, there was no ulterior motive, no anger, no seductive tone, just John blaming himself for things that were too dark for him to even see. _I can’t lose you!_

“Come,” he motioned towards the boy to come back and sit by him but John didn’t move. “John,” he made his voice stern, knowing it would trigger something inside the youths mind to obey. However, John only shook his head, his jaw set in a familiar mark of stubbornness he’d only seen at the dinner table when the boy wouldn’t eat until he did, saying that no one liked to sleep next to a skeleton. This though was a completely different playing field than not eating, this was their lives and it would not do the boy any good let him think he could get away with acting like this.

“You will obey me John,” Sherlock snapped and with the speed of a cobra, he grabbed the boy’s arm, yanked him down to the bed, and straddled him with all the weight of his body stemming through his hands onto John’s chest. “I know what kind of darkness is out there, John. You have no idea, no idea what this man is capable of…you have no idea what I am capable of!” He shouted down at the boy as the violent storms racked through his brain, flooding the avenues and demolishing the cities. “Why can’t you see I’m trying to protect you from him, from me. I will kill you before I let him touch you, John!” _what? No, I am the one who is protecting him. I won’t hurt John._

He didn’t realize how hard he was digging his fingers into John’s chest until the most horrible noise filled the room. The boy shrieked in pain and Sherlock could feel something kicking and clawing at his arms and legs, and it wasn’t John. His skin was ripping apart and something underneath was coming out, something dark and horrible that always waited patiently just under the surface. “Sherlock, you’re hurting me,” he heard John cry, giving him the strength to push the black tar back inside before it reached for the small throat. “I love you Sherlock, please stop it, you’re scaring me!”

“I-I can’t lose you John, I won’t…I can’t,” _You’re the only light I have, John. Don’t you see?_ Sherlock hated this, hated how much his heart ached for the first time at just the thought of losing John, hated how helpless it made him feel. That pain seemed to fuel that need, that hunger for possessing and owning the most precious object in the world.

“I know, it’s okay,” John sobbed below him, whipping a few of his tears away and grunting under the pressure Sherlock was still putting on him. _Oh God, what have I done?_

“John, I…I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I hurt you,” he jumped back from the boy, looking at the two giant hand shaped red marks on John’s chest. Normally the dark void inside him, those hurricanes, would have been sated at the sight of leaving his mark on what was his. Now, now it made him feel like he needed to throw up just looking at the pain and injury he had caused to the one and only good thing in his life. _What is happening to me?_ “I hurt you, oh God, I’m sorry John,” he whispered, reaching his hand out to touch the chest but then yanking it back again when the appendage appeared to be covered in that charcoal sickness. It had never been on the outside like this, never, and it bubbled out from his belly button, his eyes, his toe nails, consuming the last bit of light until Sherlock was floating in the abyss of his mind palace.

Then, there was warmth on his chest, accompanied by a pin point of light, like a small star that had survived the black hole, shining just for the sake of shining. It came from the room he had dedicated to John. “Sherlock, I’m here. I won’t leave you, I promise,” the beautiful voice that rivaled any concerto or sonata broke through the airless soundless black hole that had imprisoned him with his own fear and sickness. “Please, I’m sorry, we can do whatever you want Sherlock, whatever you want, I promise,” it was John, his John’s voice that called to him, bringing him back from the depths of his mind. At that moment, that one single moment as he lay motionless and weightless, Sherlock realized it wasn’t he who had saved John from the monsters, but John who was saving him.    

“John,” he moaned, realizing the breathlessness he felt was due to the teenager sprawled out over him. “I think you’re crushing my lungs,” he tried to laugh, tried to regain some form of stability and bring them both back to the here and now.

“I don’t care,” the boy chuckled and he could feel the warmth of tears soaking into the cotton over his chest. Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms around the shaking body, pulling him tighter to him to let John know he didn’t mind the weight. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” John apologized, making Sherlock cringe, knowing he was the cause of the two steps back in making his boy blame himself for a burden that wasn’t his to bear. _More like a revelation than a breakdown, I guess._

“No, I shouldn’t have acted that way. I just, I can’t lose you John and I over reacted, it’s my fault.”

“I’ll say, I look like I decided to get a tattoo of your hands on my chest,” John finally gave a hardy laugh. The feeling of the young body shaking over him because of joy instead of anguish warmed Sherlock’s heart and welded the doors that secured the storms shut again. “Maybe I can get a big ‘SHERLOCK’ tattooed right over one of them,” he giggled again, earning a playful swat to the backside.

“You most certainly will not. That would be both crude and dull, of which you are neither, John,” Sherlock chastised. The thought of ink tarnishing the beautiful golden skin, even if it was his name, made him sneer. _There are much better and more…pleasurable ways to make you mine, John, you know this._

“So what are you going to do to stop him?” John asked, lifting his head up slightly to peer down at the detective. He hesitated, knowing the only way to catch him was to lure Jim here but was unwilling to accept the amount of danger that would put John in. “I’ll be okay, Sherlock. I trust you…I know you’ll protect me.” _Who’s going to protect you from me?_ Jim’s words echoed through Sherlock’s brain, words that he knew must be true but he was still unable to accept them. He had to rid himself of this blight, this last coal that kept the tar boiling inside him. If not to save him, then to save John, his beautiful sweet John who would follow him into the dark and back without ever being asked.

“You will do exactly as I say, yes?”

“I promise. Unless you tell me to play Cluedo with you again, ‘cause there is no way in hell am I going through that again,” John laughed; his John, the boy who laughed in the face of danger, the boy who lay upon and joked with the wolf below him, his John the soldier and the healer.

“Alright, you go make us some tea and I will see if he is on the chat room,” he gave two pats to John’s rump and then pushed them both up. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face as he watched the boy run out of the room. “This ends tonight,” he whispered to himself and to whatever monsters could hear him. “Just please forgive me for what I have to do, John.”

When Sherlock walked down the stairs into the living room, John had already turned on the laptop and was in the kitchen, still only wearing a pair of blue pants he’d bought him. It was amazing how much the teenager had changed, how much he let Sherlock change him, to be more precise. It was easy, too easy, and this too drove the detective when he sat down at the computer and prepared his heart and mind for what he had to do to protect John.   

It was no surprise when Sherlock logged in under **John2000** , he had over a dozen hits for private messages. Sherlock could tell nine were from older men and only three were young teenagers. The messages disgusted him.

**BigDaddy43: What’s ur ASL Johnny?** _Desperate. Really 55. Masochist._

**LittleLuke: Hey there, buddy!** _26\. First time on the site. Married. Two children._

**UKLad: Wanna c my cock?** _37\. Prefers prepubescent boys because of his inadequate penis size._

**Joel.Bi: Hey** _12\. Home alone. Suicidal. Fresh meat for UKLad._

“Is he on?” John’s voice brought him back from his deductions. _The same deductions that found you, John._

“Not yet, wait, yes, I know this name? There, wait for him to make first contact,” Sherlock said, placing his fingers under his chin and waiting for the fish to bite. _I had to use a net for you, John. Damn it, focus, Sherlock, focus._ It was the environment, Sherlock told himself, this chat room that provided a ground to observe, deduce, and experiment until he got want he wanted, that was what made the darkness seep through. _You don’t blame the gun and the gun dealers when you shoot somebody do you? I shoot it, I pull the trigger, I am the wolf._

**RichyB: Did u like the article my tiger sent u, John?**

Without hesitation, John grabbed the laptop away from Sherlock and leaned back, setting it on his lap so they both could see what he was typing.

**John2000: Who r u?**

**RichyB: A friend. Did u ask Sherlock who Victor was?**

**John2000: Yes. He wasn’t happy**

**RichyB: I c u changed ur user name from JT to John. Y is that?**

John narrowed his eyes, grinning up at Sherlock, who gave a smug smile in return as his plan fell into place and nodded towards the keyboard to continue the dialogue.

**John2000: Because I don’t want to be John Thomas anymore.**

John gave him a sympathetic smile, squeezing the detective’s hand to make sure Sherlock knew it was only a ruse. _Oh John._

**RichyB: Is that so? What r u going to do about it?**

**John2000: What do u think?**

**RichyB: Does Johnny want my help?**

**John2000: U seem to know a lot about Sherlock. More than I do apparently so I want to talk.**

**RichyB: We r talking, Johnny**

**John2000: In person**

“Tell him if he won’t help you, you will go to Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered, knowing how much Moriarty hated and feared his brother.

**John2000: Please. If u can’t help me then I’ll have to go to his brother**

**RichyB: Mycroft? Now y would u do a naughty thing like that, Johnny?**

“I don’t like this guy, Sherlock,” John whispered, his hands pausing over the keyboard.

“I know, John, me neither.”

**John2000: He gave me his # in case I ever needed help**

**RichyB: Is that so? Do u want to call him?**

**John2000: No. He is a Holmes after all.**

“What is that supposed to mean,” Sherlock joked as he nudged his shoulder, trying to calm the boy’s nerves. John’s hands looked pale and were shaking slightly, bringing Sherlock to drape a possessive and protective arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“You know exactly what that means,” John let out a small laugh but his face stayed focused on the screen.

**RichyB: Right u r, Johnny. So what r u asking me?**

“Tell him I am getting ready to leave to go on a case and you want him to come and talk,” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands on his knees in anticipation right before the snare trap released. 

**John2000: Right now he’s running about preparing 4 a case. He doesn’t even realize I’m on here. When he leaves, help me.**

**RichyB: This wouldn’t be a trick would it, Johnny? Daddy doesn’t like to be lied to, u know?**

John looked up, panicked at being questioned. “It’s okay, convince him, John. Convince him just like you would me,” Sherlock grimaced at the comparison but knew there was no better way to get John’s mind in the right place.  

  **John2000: U know Sherlock. What do u think?**

There was a long minute with no response, so John set his jaw and continued to type. _Not good enough, John._

**John2000: I know who u r and I know u r the only one besides Mycroft who can pull one over on Sherlock Holmes. So I’m asking u to get me out of here just like you did with Victor.**

**RichyB: I expect payment, Johnny. I will b there when ur detective leaves u.**

**John2000: Thanks**

“S-So what do we do now,” John asked him tentatively.

“I will leave,” John’s eyes grew wide before he even finished his sentence, “John, it’s okay, I will leave because I’m sure he has eyes on Baker Street. Then, when I see him enter I will…take care of him before he even gets to you,” it was best for John to think he was going to turn Jim over to the police, even though he would do nothing of the sort. “He is not going to knock, John listen to me, focus,” he gripped the trembling boy by the shoulders. “I need you to be a strong boy for me, okay? I won’t let him take you, I promise. He is going to come in and I want you to wait for him up in our room. Whatever you hear downstairs you will not leave that room, do you understand me?”

“Y-Yes, Sherlock,” John squeezed his lips together in a tight line, trying desperately to be brave for him. _This has to be done. It’s almost over, John._

“Good boy, now go upstairs and stay under the covers and don’t move until I come to get you.” Sherlock pulled the boy into a tight hug and kissed him once on the forehead, once on each eyelid, and then deeply on the lips, getting one last fill from his elixir of life.

It only took ten minutes after John ran upstairs and Sherlock went out the door to initiate the plan for Moriarty to show up. Sherlock spotted four undercover goons walking around to make sure he didn’t come back and ruin Jim and John’s meeting. However, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes and there was no way in hell a few incompetent lackeys were going to stop him from getting back into the flat.

The rage boiled inside him as soon as Moriarty picked the lock and entered their home, _our home!_ He snuck up behind the first man and snapped his neck, letting the body drop to the floor like a rag doll. _Have to get to John._ His heart hardened. The next, he took down by a strategic blow to the temple. _Protect John._ The swells were rising. Two more went down as their heads were bashed into the brick wall of the alley they were stalking down. _Need John._ Black tar seeped through his veins like lava.

Nobody noticed or nobody cared as he walked with bloody tar covered hands into 221 Baker Street. As he entered their flat, a shrill scream echoed through his ears attempting to crack the barriers he had to put up when he killed those useless guards. “SHERLOCK!” Sherlock ran up the stairs as fast as he could to see Jim in nothing but a white undershirt and jeans, hovering over John. The boy thrashed and kicked, his eyes bubbling over with tears but his screams were cut off by a slicked hand over his mouth.

“Now, now, Johnny, none of that, I told you there would be payment, didn’t I? Is this how Sherlock takes you?” With that, thick tar oozed through his eyes and all Sherlock saw was the monster hovering over what was his, what had always been his, and what would always be his. In an instant, he leapt and ripped the man off of the bed, throwing him to the floor, and dove on top of him. A fist slammed into his face, bringing a snarl from the detective as he was suddenly flipped over onto his back.

“Sherlock,” the monster grunted, “how nice of you to join us,” he spoke in a sickly high pitch, digging his knees into Sherlock’s groin and elbows into his chest. He growled and when he was able to get on top again, the figure below him changed… _what?_ “You’re me!” his voice said from below. Moriarty had morphed into what Sherlock had feared most from the moment he’d met John…himself. “You’re not on the side of the angels, Sherlock.”

“Shut up!” he yelled down at himself as they struggled on the floor but to his horror, his clone yelled the same thing back, laughing at him. He was the monster and the monster was him, but how, yes how, do you protect the most precious thing you have from yourself? How do you stop yourself from dragging them down into the void, where you can keep them as a fine porcelain artifact forever? The half Jim, half Sherlock, half black mass began to roll towards him in waves, merging them into the sickness that had waited just on the cusp, waited for someone like John to consume whole. _I’m sorry John._ The searing hand grabbed onto his neck and-BANG!

A deafening shot rang through the room and the tar turned to ash instantly, floating off to settle beside him. Sherlock gasped as the weight was lifted from his body, peering over to see Moriarty’s lifeless body next to him. “Sherlock!” John shouted, bringing the detective to sit up and look at the pale, terrified boy with a gun, t _he same gun he pointed at me,_ in his steady hands. “Is he…did I?” The gun dropped from his hand and he tucked his knees to his chest, creating a tight ball.

“John,” was all Sherlock could say because that’s all that mattered, in that moment and forever. John, a child, had saved him from the worst monster of all, himself.  Suddenly, the brave face turned into a crumbling mess, breaking right in front of his eyes. In two long steps, the death on his hands gone, Sherlock grabbed the tight shivering ball and held John to his chest, hushing him. “Shhh, you were such a brave boy, John. I need you to do one more thing for me, can you do that, can you listen to me?” He received a small nod and continued. “I shot Moriarty while you hid under the blankets, do you understand me?” This was the way it was supposed to be, had to be. Inevitably, Mrs. Hudson or someone else in a nearby building heard the shots and Lestrade would come and question them. This chapter was over but it was still his job to take care of John, that was his promise, his one purpose no longer controlled by the darkness.

“But Sherlock I-“

“No John, when they ask you what happened, you tell them you didn’t see anything because you were hiding under the covers, tell me you understand,” he held on to John, stroked his hair for what he knew would be his last time. “I’m going to text Mycroft now, okay,” Sherlock grabbed his mobile from his pocket.  

“But what’s gonna happen?”

“I don’t know, John but you’ll be okay, I promise.”

**Sherlock: I need your help**

**Mycroft: Please tell me John is okay**

**Sherlock: Yes. Moriarty is dead, I shot him**

**Mycroft: I’m on my way**

                   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, you remember back in the very beginning when I said this wasn't going to have a happy ending? Well, I think my hopeless romantic is showing a bit because, although their are going to be a few more psychologically traumatic and dark moments, the ending is not going to be as dark as I originally planned. I think I've become a bit too invested and I just can't do that to poor John. So I do apologize to those of you who were hoping for a darker ending though because that really was my intention when I first started the series.


	11. Breaking Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV directly after chapter ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to one of the most depressing chapters I've ever written. Please check the tags for updated warnings because John has, for the lack of a better term, cracked and gone into a deep depression. 
> 
> Also, I think most of you will be happy about this, I lied about how many chapters are left. The next chapter will be a special one time POV of Mycroft Holmes. Then, Sherlock's will follow as the final chapter. Sorry but it just kind of happened that way, you know how it is(:
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 11 – Breaking Down

John had killed someone. Someone who was about to kill Sherlock, yes, but that still didn’t change the fact he had pulled the trigger and now there was a man lying dead on the ground. _I had to do it, right? I mean…he would’ve killed Sherlock if I hadn’t-if I hadn’t…shot him._ “John,” there were voices around him, too many voices, too many colors, too many people trying to grab ahold of him. It was all just too much and he needed Sherlock but he wasn’t there, _why isn’t he here? Sherlock please don’t leave me!_ “John, I need you to come with me, now okay? There’s a good lad,” another voice said to him, or maybe it was to somebody else, another John perhaps. _Another John that hasn’t just killed somebody._

He was moving now, or at least being moved, but it wasn’t by Sherlock. _Where’s Sherlock, I need to find him!_ “It’s okay, lad, you’re safe now,” he felt ice cold air hit his face, _who put clothes on me? Sherlock won’t like it, I have to get them off. Please, I need Sherlock!_ “No, no, you’re alright, leave those on, John,” a hand rubbed over his clothed back and it wasn’t Sherlock’s, it wasn’t Sherlock’s and he was alone, he’d killed somebody and he was alone.

“Sherlock!” he finally found his voice, screaming at the top of his lungs. John looked around, there were so many faces and sounds but none of them the ones he wanted to see or hear, none of them were Sherlock. Instead of waiting for the detective to find him, _maybe he’s hurt, maybe that man hurt him,_ John pushed past the insignificant human barriers to get where he belonged.

“John, stop it! Calm down son,” the same voice shouted at him, gasping loudly when John kicked him in the shin because he wouldn’t let him through. There was something around him now, a vice, a rope, arms, it was arms that looped around him and pulled him back from 221B.

“Let go of me!” John shouted, anger took him first at the fact someone was keeping him away from Sherlock but then fear dawned on him. ‘I told you there would be payment, didn’t I?’ he heard a voice, it was only an echo but it sent shivers up his spine nonetheless. _Moriarty! He’s got me. Oh dear God, I didn’t kill him and now he’s taking me away!_ “Sherlock, help me!”

“John!” the deep voice could be heard coming from inside the flat, but John knew he could hear it from miles away if he needed to.

“Keep him in there until we get the kid in the car, damn it!” The man holding him shouted when only the top of Sherlock’s head could be seen over the bodies invading their home.

“Sherlock, settle down, you are only making it harder than it already is for the poor boy,” a familiar voice came from somewhere inside the building. _Mycroft? Mycroft!_

“Mycroft! Please, he’s got me!” he shouted again, grasping, trying to hold onto something before that curly brown hair disappeared from view. John hadn’t realized it before now, but he had been standing over a canyon, nothing but a glass floor keeping him up. Why he was out there, so far from the sturdy ground, he had no idea but now that he looked down, there were cracks, so many cracks spreading out like etched spider webs. Sherlock wasn’t out there with him anymore, the two brothers where standing on the canyon ledge waving at him as he pulled the trigger and the final crack gave way. John fell.

No matter how hard he fought to stay where he was, no matter how hard he kicked and screamed, Moriarty’s arms were around his torso and he was pulled down into the canyon. Away from Sherlock, alone. “Relax, John, relax,” the man said as he held John to his chest in the back seat of a car, which was not a police car John noticed and this sent him into an even greater panic. “My name is Greg, DI Greg Lestrade, okay? I’m not going to hurt-ah John calm down,” he shouted when John tried to get the door open as he  saw Sherlock being led out of the building in handcuffs.

“Let go of me. Why won’t you let me go,” John begged. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes when the car started moving, taking him away from Baker Street.

“John,” the man who claimed to be an officer whispered, “John can you look at me?” He didn’t want to but there was no since in refusing so John turned his head, pulling away from the man’s grip. “Good, that’s good. How old are you, John?”

“Fourteen,” he answered, scooting himself away to lean on the door. _Should I try it? Would I die if I hit the ground? Would Sherlock pay for a funeral for me?_

“John,” the voice brought him out of his thoughts. John wrapped his hand over the handle, ready to pull at any second. “John, I need you to scoot forward a bit, yeah, and take your hand off the door.” John could tell Greg was ready to spring if he decided to fall, both literally and figuratively this time.

“Will you let me see Sherlock?”

“I can’t promise anything but I’ll see what I can do,” the DI scooted closer when the car turned.

“Then why should I?” He challenged, watching as little pieces of himself flaked off onto the black leather seat.

“Because I don’t want you to hurt yourself, John, do you understand that? Do you understand what is happening?” Greg’s voice was gentle and coaxing, calming the boy a bit and John removed his hand but kept his back to the door, just in case.

“You’re…um, you’re taking me away from Sherlock?” John asked, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay as the words left his mouth.

“Yes, John I want you to listen to me very carefully, can you do that?” John nodded, giving the DI his full attention. “You were kidnapped, you are not John Thomas, you are John Watson and you live in Southampton with your mom, not at Baker Street.”

John scowled at the man’s words, placing his hand back on the door.  He watched for a moment as the trees and cars flew by in the opposite window, the colors melding together like water colors. “You’re taking me back?” he asked, already knowing the answer and already knowing his solution.

“Yes, John, we’ve already contacted your mother. She’s so happy you’re alive. Sherlock made everyone think you were dead!” Greg said, realizing his mistake after it was too late.

“I’m not going back,” was all John said before he pulled the handle to open the door. However, they had already locked it and by the time he turned around to locate the release, Greg was on him and pulling him back by the collar of his shirt and placing something cold and hard around his wrists. Then, in one awkward move, mostly because of his continued struggles, John was held to Greg’s side with a firm arm wrapped around his shoulders. “Please, Greg, please don’t take me back to my old life, please! I’ll do anything, I promise, whatever you want just don’t take me away from Sherlock, please,” John cried, knowing that begging was his only option because the embrace and handcuffs were too strong.

“Jesus, he did a number on you, didn’t he?” Greg sighed, pulling John’s head to his chest to comfort the crying boy. It was a soothing act but John didn’t like it, the chest felt cold and the voice wasn’t right, it wasn’t the deep timbre that made his mind melt…it wasn’t Sherlock. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when Mycroft asked me to handle the case. Sherlock’s a genius and a fucking prick but-“

“Shut up!” John shouted, trying to pull away from the man and make him apologize for talking about his Sherlock that way. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, who Sherlock really was, not like him at least. Greg only tightened his grip and sighed.

“Shite, I’m not handling this well at all, am I? Look, why don’t we just sit here in silence until we get to the station. If you feel like talking, I’ll listen but I won’t ask you any more questions until we arrive, okay?” Greg rubbed his hand along John’s arm in an attempt to soothe the shaking boy but John remained tense throughout the entire drive.

“Whatever,” John grumbled and closed his eyes, trying desperately not think about what his mother was going to say, what the kids and teachers at school would say, what would happen to Sherlock, would he go to jail, how he could prevent him from going to jail? It was just too much, too many questions, and too many variables. W _here is Sherlock?_ though, was the only question, John really cared about. “W-what’s going to happen to Sherlock?” he whispered, the sound barley rising above the engine.

“Well, that depends on what he’s charged with but…well, that’s not really a question I can answer right now. You’re going to be fine though, John, Sherlock already told us that you weren’t involved in the death of Jim Moriarty. He said you were hiding under the covers the whole time,” Greg whispered back to him, squeezing him tighter. _What? No, that’s not what happened, I shot Moriarty, I did, not Sherlock!_

“No, Greg I-“

“You were hiding under the covers when Sherlock shot him, John, he already told us what happened,” Greg said again, his voice harsher than before. John scrunched his nose up, shaking his head and trying desperately to figure out why Sherlock would have lied for him. _I shot him, me, the blood is on my hands not Sherlock’s._ Then, the detective’s voice rang in his ears, telling him exactly what Greg had just told him. _But why, Sherlock? Why?_

“Okay,” was all he could manage, still confused but would accept it if that was what Sherlock wanted. After all, Sherlock was a zillion times smarter than everyone so he must have a plan, John realized, smiling a bit to himself at the thought.

“Good, okay, here we are, John. If you promise you won’t run or do anything rash I’ll take the cuff off you. Do I have your word?” John nodded and the metal was removed from his hands, and then he was led out of the car and into a large building.

“Johnny!” a familiar voice ran through what looked to be a police station, or at least according to the crime dramas on the telly he watched with Sherlock. Those were some of his favorite, even though Sherlock would yell out the clues and who the killer was in the first ten minutes of the movie.

Suddenly, he was met with his frantic looking mother running towards him and John took a step back but ran into Greg, who held him by the shoulders so his mom could pick him up into a huge hug. “Oh John, I was so worried about you!” She put him down and held him by the shoulders, “do you have any idea what you put me through?” _What the fuck do you mean what I put you through?_ A voice in John’s head yelled but it didn’t sound like his own, it was deeper and smoother, Sherlock’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” was all John could say, feeling numb and cold in this woman’s embrace.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t you worry, we’ll get this sorted out and then you can come home,” she smiled down at him. As they walked down the hallway to God know where, John sniffed and wiped his eyes with the hand that wasn’t in his mother’s iron grip. _I have to be brave until Sherlock comes for me._

The next month was a whirlwind, dragging John along, around and around until he felt like he was going to throw up or pass out or both. He had talked to police officers, solicitors, Psychiatrists, Psychologists, and Doctors. The worst was definitely the Doctor, who made him lie down on his back and placed his legs up on stirrups while his mom held his hand, crying, and Greg stood over in the corner filling out paper work with a sad look on his face. The old Doctor had rubbed something up inside of him, telling John it was going to be okay when everything was obviously not and would never be again. When the Doctor scowled at whatever he found, John told him to ‘fuck off’ and his mum cried even more.

The scariest though, was when he had to ‘give his statement’ as Greg had put it. There were five men in the room who all said they were there to help him but they all seemed cold. It was sitting in that chair that John realized Sherlock was trying to save him from being in trouble for shooting Moriarty. At that moment, he formed a plan, albeit not as good as Sherlock could come up with, but it would have to do for now. _Besides, everyone keeps saying I’m the victim here, not Sherlock. So what are they going to do if I lie?_

“John, can you tell us in your own words how you met Sherlock Holmes and your accounts of the events following,” Greg asked, taking a sip of his coffee and fiddling with the recorder.  

“I met him on a chat room, ChatAvenue I think it was called, he was really nice and then we exchanged phone numbers and continued talking and getting to know each other. Then, we decided to meet so he could help me out with Uni stuff and hang out,” John recalled how many scholarship applications Sherlock had printed out for him and smiled.

“How old did Sherlock tell you he was?”

John lowered his head, knowing all this information was on his phone and computer. It wouldn’t do him any good to lie now and tarnish his credibility. “He said he was seventeen.”

“And when did you find out he wasn’t seventeen?”

“He told me he was twenty-two after I made my football team,” _‘I knew you could do it!’_ Sherlock’s voice rang in his head, recalling how proud he’d made the man and calming him slightly.

“What did you do then?”

“Nothing, it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, we were already friends, who cares about age when you love each other?” John asked, defensive.

“Do you love him, John?” Greg asked, furrowing his brown in way that made John feel pitied. He hated it, not only because there was no reason for him to be pitied but also _who the fuck was this guy and what did he know_?

“Of course I do…and he love me too, Detective Inspector,” he heard himself say, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Okay John,” a sad smile across his face, “so what happened next?”

“Then, he drove all the way to the WestQuay to pick me up and then we went to one of the coffee shops, where he bought me a latte and went back to 221B.”

“Did he force you into the car?”

“No,” it wasn’t a lie, John knew, because he had gone willingly, unable to deny the magnetic draw of the man who loved him so wholly. “He drove up to the port and I hopped in and then when we got to our flat I went in all of my own freewill. Sherlock didn’t force me to do anything, I wanted everything.”

“John…you said, ‘when we got to our flat,’ did I hear that correctly?” Greg asked.

John hadn’t even realized he’d said it, to be honest; it was just old hat by now because Baker Street was his home, so why wouldn’t he call it ‘their’ flat. “Yes, well, I guess it wasn’t at the time but now…”

“I see. So what happened when you went into the flat?”

This was it, John knew exactly what these people wanted from him. They wanted nails for Sherlock’s coffin but he would be damned if he gave them one speck of anything that would hurt the man. “I-I asked him to kiss me…”

“John, look at me,” the boy did, staring into the dark eyes of the Inspector, “I need you to be honest with us, okay? It is very important that we get the real story of what happened between you and Sherlock. We want to help you both, John.”

“Yes sir,” John nodded, not fooled for an instant, “Well, I didn’t really ask to kiss him…I threw myself at him and we got off on each other,” he said in a nonchalant voice, shrugging his shoulder like it was no big deal. It wasn’t, John reminded himself, it had felt amazing, sure he was scared but Sherlock didn’t hurt him and look at how much good had come from that night.

Greg sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, “did you have sexual intercourse with Sherlock Holmes, John?”

“Yes sir, but I asked him to, it was my idea,” he quickly added.

“That doesn’t matter. He is an adult and you are still a minor. It was his responsibility and he took advantage of you,” Greg explained, reaching out his hand to grab the boy’s shaking one. “Did you ever tell him to stop?”

John’s eye’s widened recalling that night in the shower. How much it had hurt, how he told Sherlock to stop, but that was so long ago, so long ago and Sherlock had done so much good for him after that one night. “No,” he shook his head, shoving the painful memory back down, “I wanted it, he didn’t rape me.”

“Alright John, would you like to take a break?”

“No, I want to get this over with so I can see Sherlock again. When can I see him?”

“Let’s just get this finished and then we’ll see, yeah.” He was lying, John could tell, confirming to the boy this was not a man he could trust. “Okay, so the examiner says your leg and wrist have some slight tissue damage, which according to your past medical history was not there until now. What happened, John?”

“I fell down the stairs,” John said, keeping his eyes level with Greg’s to convey that he was telling the truth. “We were playing and I tripped. Sherlock was able to fix me up, he knows what he’s doing when it comes to that kind of thing. I’m fine now, though,” John smiled and lifted his arm up to show its full mobility and to prove how well Sherlock took care of him.

“I see,” he said again and John realized that he was be condescending towards him.

“It’s true! How do you know? You weren’t there!” John shouted at him, feeling a few more pieces of himself fall off onto the table.

“No, I wasn’t there, John, none of us were. However, I’ve known Sherlock for a very long time and I know how manipulative he can be, especially when a person wants to be…manipulated. I know you want to protect him but you aren’t helping him by covering for him, John. Sherlock is ill and I need you to be honest with me so I can help him, do you understand, son?”

“Of course I understand! I’m not stupid and you don’t have to treat me like a child. I know what’s going on and I know what you want from me but you can’t have it,” _Sherlock’s already taken it._ “We had sex, I wrote the suicide note, I wanted to stay, he fixed me, I was broken and he fixed me! It’s my fault, don’t blame him, it’s my fault,” John heard himself repeating those words over and over again as he hit his head on the table until someone pulled him away…but it wasn’t Sherlock. He was alone.

After his ‘break down’ as Dr. Landbury, the child psychiatrist, had called it, they told John they didn’t have any more questions. “Why did you try to hurt yourself on the table, John,” the lady asked, smiling with her clipboard in hand and one knee crossed over the other. John tried not to laugh at the stereotypical therapist spiel as he sat in an overstuffed chair that made him sink down too far.

“I don’t know. You’re the professional, aren’t you supposed to tell me?” John asked, already on the defensive.

“Well, I could tell you why I think you did it but I don’t think you are going to like the answer,” she continued to smile and John wondered if it was permanently tattooed on her face. _‘Maybe I can get a big ‘SHERLOCK’ tattooed right over one of them.’ ‘You most certainly will not. That would be both crude and dull, of which you are neither, John.’_ John smiled and could feel the warmth on his chest just like he was lying on top of Sherlock.

“I can handle it.”

“You liked the way Sherlock made you feel, emotionally and physically, didn’t you?” John nodded. “And you miss that feeling, yes?” Again, John nodded. “You think no one in the world is ever going to give you that again?”

“They won’t, no one has ever loved me like Sherlock,” John knew this to be true. In his whole life he had never even seen somebody with the intensity Sherlock could focus on people. _And he chose me!_

“John, do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?” John shook his head slightly, wondering if it was a Swedish reference. “It is a term coined in the seventies, to describe an emotional and psychological phenomenon in a hostage or captive situation. In 1973, there was bank robbery at Norrmalsmstorg Square in Stockholm, Sweden that lasted six days. Do you know what happened when the police finally captured the two robbers and saved the hostages?”

“No,” John scowled at the comparison of Sherlock to a bank robber. It made absolutely no sense.

“When they interviewed and questioned the hostages, they realized the victims had become emotionally attached to their captors and even defended them after they were freed. This process is increased when the hostage is required to depend on their kidnapper for everyday things, such as being fed, bathed, comforted. Is that why Sherlock broke your ankle and wrist, John?”

By the end of her speech, John had pulled his legs up to his chest and was rocking slowly. He stared past her, trying desperately to push her words out of his head before they took root; for if they did, he would surely crack into a million little pieces that weren’t even his anymore. Sherlock had given him those pieces, placed them on gently and glued them in perfect symmetry, so if everything he had felt was some stupid term created by a fucking Sweed…then yes, he would break. “Can I go home now?”

As his mother drove him to her home, John tuned out her stories about all the food they got from the neighbors and how he was so lucky his teachers would let him make up his school work so he didn’t fall behind. Instead, he thought about what Dr. Landbury had told him. It made since, sure, he could understand how Sherlock making him depend on the man for everything helped instil some sort of sympathy or connection, _but it’s still a real connection, right? The feelings were still real, both of ours, so why the fuck do they have to label it as some sort of phenomenon? They didn’t question great-grandpa George when he came home from WWII with a Japanese bride, who everyone said was the enemy. They didn’t come up with some stupid name like ‘Japanese Syndrome’ because it was strange for warriors to fall in love with the enemy. If I was broken, who cares how I got fixed, I’m better now and Sherlock did that, not my mum, not my teachers, not the stupid doctors, him!_

“John! John honey, stop!” He heard his mother’s voice but it wasn’t Sherlock’s. He was still alone. There was a loud screech and then a hand on his head pulling him away from the window that he’d been hitting his head against. “Oh, love, don’t you worry. You’ll be back to your old self in no time, yeah. It’s okay, we’ll just get you back to your old routine, just like the Doctor said, and then you’ll forget all this nastiness,” she cradled his head on her breast and John shivered when he couldn’t hear her heart beat, couldn’t feel the warmth that he so desperately needed to help keep himself whole.

It had been a month, a month since he’d shot Moriarty, a month since he’d seen Sherlock or Mycroft or Baker Street, a month had passed and now he would find out his lover’s fate. It was Greg who called and his mother who answered but by her gleeful reaction, John saw a large chunk fall off, his head thumped and rolled to the ground, lifeless and alone. “Only ten years?... Detective Inspector, you know that God awful man should get at least thirty…. No, I don’t care who he’s related to or how many connections he has, do you know what he’s done to my family? Reports outside every day, do you even know what kind of appearances we have to keep up?...Yes, well, we’ll see about that…No, no, I’ll tell him. Yes, thank you Inspector, bye bye now.”

“John honey, guess what?” She asked like he was a moron and wasn’t standing right next to her through the entire conversation.

“Sherlock got ten years in prison. Can I go up to my room, now?” He asked, not wanting to hear her rant about the reports again and how much hair spray she had to use to make sure her hair was perfect when they went out because who knew who was in the bushes wanting to get a photo of her famous boy.

“Yes, yes, of course dear. I’m going to go over to Donna’s for a tick, will you be okay?” John nodded, not really hearing or caring what she said, “Good, it’s best you get a good night’s sleep for your first day back at school, yes? Good night, love,” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then he walked up stairs to the room she’d told him was his.  

He stripped completely, still not used to sleeping in pajamas and curled up, holding his pillow tightly to his chest. It wasn’t enough and tears started welling up in his eyes at the coldness he felt on his back. Then, John grabbed his covers and rolled himself up in them, creating a cocoon like effect that would keep him wrapped tightly. If he closed his eyes real tight, he could feel a warm breath ghosting over his neck but it wasn’t enough and John began to cry silently, digging his face into the pillow that only smelled like him and detergent.

Suddenly, he shot up and paced the floor over and over again, rubbing his hands through his hair that his mother had made him cut. John looked at himself walking by the mirror. He was paler than he expected, his eyes where more of a moldy blue rather than an ocean blue like Sherlock had said. Dark circles rested below them and then the bags turned to cracks, which started spreading along his face. John watched as his entire face tuned into a horror puzzle of shards and crevasses. They worst part was though, John knew, was that he didn’t know how to hold the pieces together anymore. If they fell and Sherlock didn’t catch them and put them back with a small kiss to each…then no one would. He was alone. “Why, why, why, whywhywhywhywhy! Please, WHY!” Then there was pain, sharp pain in his hand accompanied by a loud crash.

When he looked down his hand was covered in blood. _From what?_ Then, John looked up and saw the mirror was broken into small and large pieces, as was his reflection. The boy had stopped crying, finding that some of the pain had receded when his hand throbbed from the lacerations he’d caused. The blood continued to drip on the floor, so, in what felt like slow motion, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, adjusting the tap to warm.

It felt nice, the water washing away the grim on his skin but his body still felt gross and tired. John watched as the red water flowed down into the drain and he could feel Sherlock behind him, thrusting into him as he saw his own blood float into the drain. _‘I’m inside you now, forever, John. I love you.’ ‘I love you too.’_ He cried, and cried, and cried, and cried until he finally fell asleep lying in the fetal position at the bottom of the tub.

In the morning, he was able to dress his wound cleanly enough that his mother didn’t even notice the plasters and then walked to school. “H-Hey, John,” Mike said when he made it to his first class. Everyone, the nerds, the jocks, even the freaks who didn’t bathe regularly watched him and whispered as he walked down the halls. Now, the kid who had been one of his best friends since they were first years looked at him like he was terrified.

“Hey, Mike,” was all he said and then the other boy turned around to face the front of the class. As the professor gave his lecture, he glanced at John every once and a while, a small smile and his brow pulled together in the most condescending look he’d received yet. _Fuck, I have to get out of here!_

When the torture was over, John grabbed his lunch and headed to one of the tables. Alone. “Hey, look who it is!” A voice came from behind him. “It’s the little homo,” the boy laughed and John could hear at least five other boy’s laughing along. He turned to see two of his team mates and a few of the rugby players he used to hang out with. “Better watch out gents, don’t want to be in the same locker room with this one!” They laughed again, this time, a few others from the surrounding tables joined in the laughter.

“Oh, what are ya gonna do fairy, hit me?” The boy said when John clenched his fist. He could feel his face getting red, both from anger and embarrassment.

“Yeah, mate, did you like it, fairy? Huh, did ya like it when that poofer bent ya ova’”

“Yeah, I bet ‘e did, probably beggin’ for it now, ain’t ya?”

With that, John snapped and the next thing he knew, his fist was bleeding again but he couldn’t tell if it was his blood or from the other boy’s nose that he was pounding into. It felt good, like a release valve that was finally opened and he could pour everything out and the only thing that mattered was the pain he felt in his fist and the places he was being kick. The pain in his heart in soul didn’t matter anymore. If John stopped hitting this kid now, the valve would surely shut off and all the water would be stuck inside him again, building up until the pipe itself exploded..

“We’ve called your mother, John, but she is at work and cannot pick you up. Is there another guardian you can call to take you home?” The Headmaster peered at him through his glasses, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Yes,” John answered, trying desperately to remember Mycroft’s number. He’d memorized it just in case he ever needed to use another phone other than his mobile.

“Very good. Now John, I know you’ve been through an ordeal over the past month or so and I am willing to let this slide on the grounds that I think it was too early for you to come back. Rest assured, the other students will be punished as I was told by Miss Morstan what happened at lunch. Now, go wait in the office for your guardian to retrieve you, Mr. Watson.”

“Thank you, Sir,” John said and used the phone in the office to call Mycroft.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking?” The familiar voice answered the phone.

“M-Mycorft…” John stuttered, having second thoughts about calling the brother of the man who was in prison because of him. _It was because of me, wasn’t it? Oh God, it was…if I wasn’t on that chat room none of this would have ever happened. Sherlock would still be free. Oh fuck, I’m so sorry Sherlock!_ When the realization hit him like a ton of bricks, John paled and hung up the phone with a loud bang. When the secretary looked at him curiously, he smiled and said, “wrong number. Actually, my mom texted me and said she just pulled up. Thanks for letting me use your phone.”

With that, John ran out of the school and headed for the Southampton Railway Station. It only took him an hour of riding and walking to get the Itchen Bridge. He stood on the pavement, peering over into the ice cold water, watching his breath fog in the air and his tears hit the safety rail. This was it, this was how it had to end, _‘I told you there would be payment, didn’t I?_ The sick Irish voice rang in his mind, confirming that yes, this was the only way to save himself from the punishment he had to endure because he was too weak to hold onto Sherlock, too weak to save them, too weak to be alone. Now they were both imprisoned, Sherlock in a cage and John in a life of black in white that used to be filled with beautiful pastels.

 _‘John, what’s wrong?’ ‘Me,’_ he had told Sherlock and now John realized it was true and the only way to free them both from the burden was to jump, to cease to exist, to wither away, to become worm food, to go six feet under, to grow cold, to die…yes, he would be the burden no longer. John leaned over the rail, closed his eyes and-

“John! Wait!” A familiar voice shouted at him. _‘Hello John, you don’t have to be afraid of me.’ Well, that was before I put your brother in jail._

John put his arms on the rail and tipped forward, feeling the hands of his mother, Mike, his teachers, the Headmaster…and Jim grabbing ahold of his shirt collar and pulling him over the edge into blackness.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I believe that is the true definition of a cliff hanger(:


	12. Try a Little Tenderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV from the beginning of the series to present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello(: Thank you so much for all the support, kudos, and comments...I love them all! 
> 
> This chapter a bit different than the others because Mycroft is not insane or brainwashed, however, he is quite immoral but he knows what he's doing the whole time. 
> 
> Also, now that we are only one chapter away from the end I hope most of you like the type of ending I've chosen to go with. As you can imagine there are probably a hundred different ways this story could have gone. I know a lot of you have become emotionally invested in this story, so I do apologize if you've read this far and it did not take the turn you were hoping for. I know how that feels, LoL, so that's why 'I'm sorry if it didn't end like you expected but I hope you enjoyed this one and the rest of the story.' (:

Chapter 12 – Try a Little Tenderness

**One hour before John’s phone call**

“No, you listen to me Mr. Holden, my brother’s incarceration nor my relationship to him has any correlation to my ability to do my job. Now if you will excuse me, I have some work to do keeping Britain safe. Good day, sir,” Mycroft slammed the phone down, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as if he could stop the blood flow to his brain and end the torment. It was the thirteenth phone call he’d received after Sherlock’s ten year sentence had become public knowledge. Most, if not all, were appalled at the tarnished reputation of the ‘Holmes’ name. _If they only knew._

The elder Holmes poured a generous helping of his finest single malt and drank the whole three fingers in one gulp, feeling the burn travel from his lips to his stomach. “How did I let it get this far?”

**Two and a half months earlier**

“Sir, here are some documents for you to sign. They are the contracts going out to the Palace in the morning.” Anthea said, placing the papers and a gold plated pen on Mycroft’s desk. He looked them over briefly, knowing his apt assistant would inform him of any problems or changes. As he handed her the signed papers, he saw how she twisted her fingers together nervously. _What has Sherlock done now?_

“Is there something else, Anthea?” He questioned, not looking up from the papers on his desk.

“It’s your brother Sir, Sherlock, he’s on the hunt again,” she spoke quickly but her tone was higher than normal.

_Damn it Sherlock._ “Yes, very well. Have security keep an eye on him. Alert me if he finds someone, yes. Is that all?” He snapped, not meaning to be harsh but it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last for both his tone and Sherlock’s infractions. However, one thing was for certain though, Mycroft had and would always be there to pick up the pieces afterwards. It’s what he’d promised mummy on her death bed, and Lord knows what she had to put up with raising the little demon child, and that’s what he was going to do, come hell or high water.

Even growing up with Sherlock, Mycroft knew he was the obsessive type, needing and wanting everything either in his mind palace or toy chest. It was harmless, the nanny had told their mother when Sherlock had grabbed his stuffed bear and shoved it in his satchel to take to school. It would have been ‘harmless’ if the young Holmes hadn’t punched three kids in the stomach when they tried to pet the bear. They though it was cute, even the teachers said he would make someone very happy one day, showering them with all the love they could ever imagine. Mycroft knew, though, knew his little brother was not ordinary enough to have a simple obsession, like collecting snow globes or standing in line when the newest film came out. No, when he looked at that little boy with a curly mop of dark hair gripping the teddy bear by the throat and petting its head possessively, Mycroft knew Sherlock Holmes would never be satisfied just to love, he had to possess.

That is why only a day later Mycroft wasn’t surprised when Anthea brought him a file on a fourteen year old boy from Southampton named John Hamish Watson. _Why does it always have to be kids?_ “Thank you Anthea, please alert Tech that Sherlock’s most likely rewired his phone and laptop so they will need to get out there and re-bug 221B as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Sir. Shall I alert security to watch Mr. Watson’s home?”

“No, let us not interfere with my brother’s chatting yet. Perhaps he’s merely whetting his appetite and will lose interest,” he looked up at his PA, who quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. “Yes, well, keep an eye on both of them,” Mycroft didn’t believe his words either, for Sherlock was not one to just whet anything.

As he looked through John’s file, Mycroft sighed at the picture of the young innocent boy who had no idea what he’d just stepped into. Blonde hair, blue eyes, athlete, decent grades, virgin, father: deceased, mother: a closet alcoholic, homosexual interests: 79%, heterosexual interests: 20%, asexual interests: 1%, isolated, and lonely…yes, John was the perfect lamb for the black wolf to grab by the throat and drag into its cave. What, with the promise of a better life, to be cared for and protected, a little mental manipulation, and there was no denying his little brother’s sexual attractiveness, especially to a young boy still discovering himself, physically and emotionally. When Mycroft looked down at that page of statistics, he knew John Watson didn’t stand a chance.  

That is why, again, there was no surprise when Anthea informed him of Sherlock bugging the Watson house, the phone calls the two made, and finally the detective convinced John to come visit him in London. _Damn._ “Alright, you know the drill, inform the necessary departments please, Anthea. I want a tracker on John Watson at all times and do tell them to try to find a way to bug my brother’s flat without him finding them in the first hour, yes.”

“Yes, Sir,” she gave him tight lip smile because they both knew once that boy got into that car, Sherlock would never be able to let him go. Even if he wanted to, Mycroft knew deep down inside him that Sherlock wouldn’t let John go until he consumes him whole or someone steps in to fix the situation. This was how it was and always would be, Sherlock was a master at breaking things just as Mycroft was a master at fixing them. _The Gods must have enjoyed making us born under the same name._    

Sherlock and John had spent their weekend together while Mycroft was in Paris having tea with the President, chatting about the finest wines and foreign policies. On his plane back to London, Anthea sent him the specifics of what little the cameras had picked up at 221B. She also mentioned, John had not left the flat and Sherlock made contact with his homeless network. “Where are they making the drop,” he sighed, knowing exactly what Sherlock was planning. Although, he had to admit, for all his brother’s intelligence it made absolutely no sense to go with the same plan of a suicide note when it failed so horribly the last time. _Well, I guess that is the definition of insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing but expecting different results._

“The Southsea Skate Park in Portsmouth, Sir. It appears he’s using Timothy Marcus, homeless for six years, to drop off the letter, skateboard, mobile, and shoes at the beach. Shall I intercept?”

He paused, in fact, dealing with his brother was the only time Mycroft hesitated in his decisions, and quite frankly it was pissing him off to be so inefficient. He sighed, leaned back in his chair and sealed John’s fate. “No, send one of our officers to find the evidence at the beach and then contact Mrs. Watson. Keep our men on the case, Anthea, I don’t want anyone sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.” _Like Jim Moriarty_ “Also, double check all of the text messages, I believe John told one Mike Stamford about Sherlock, we need to nip that in the bud fast and keep an eye on both his mother’s and Mike’s phone records, as well.”

“Should I contact Lestrade?”

Again, Mycroft paused, sneering at the delicate situation and debating whether he could trust the DI. The inspector had been a great asset last time, helping and coaching Victor through his lines of ‘amnesia’ to protect both Sherlock and the boy. However, he was a man of the law and there was only so much one could push before a relationship cracked and turned ugly. “Yes, send him John’s file and tell him I will be in touch once I further investigate Sherlock’s relations with this boy.” _That should do for now._ Let Lestrade know what was going on but ensure it would cause no extra work for the man and of course continue wiring their agreed upon sum to his ill mother in Leeds for babysitting his little brother.

“What about Baker Street?” Anthea asked.

“What about it?

“John, is he going to stay at Baker Street?”

“For now, yes, my brother has stayed out of trouble and off cocaine since he met the boy, which is the longest he’s been clean in years. Perhaps this John Watson…or what is it now?”

“John Thomas, Mr. Holmes,” she told him.

“Yes, perhaps this John Thomas is different than the others. However, do make a note in my schedule. I want to stop by and see for myself the situation my brother has put himself in. That will be all,” he turned off the speaker phone, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. It would be thirty minutes until they landed, which gave Mycroft plenty of time to work out at least a dozen ways this could go wrong and twenty four ways to fix them.

It wasn’t until he met John that the elder Holmes realized he’d made the right decision in not removing the boy from Sherlock’s grasp. He had picked the lock after several knocks and as he entered Sherlock’s flat, he heard moaning and grunts from upstairs. _Well, I guess that’s better than coming in and seeing him unconscious with a needle sticking out of his arm._ After a moment of making sure both parties were enjoying themselves and John was not being harmed, but rather participating, Mycroft had enough. “William Sherlock Holmes!” The banging stopped and what he saw next would forever hold a place on the mantel piece in Sherlock’s room of his mind palace.

His younger brother could be heard running down the stairs and then slowed suddenly as to not give away his excitement. It had always been and always would be like that between them; Sherlock viewing Mycroft as his arch nemesis, playing their conversations like a chess game, but in the end he knew he could always come to his big brother when he was in real trouble and that was all that mattered. Simply put, they weren’t the hugging type and Sherlock threw up countless amounts of walls every time Mycroft came around. Although, it usually didn’t help because to Mycroft, the boy he grew up with was an open book. Right now, Mycroft saw unimaginable content and serenity in his young brother’s features and eyes, even when Sherlock tried to hide it.

However, it wasn’t only the way Sherlock’s movements had become more fluid instead of sharp or his eyes stayed on him instead of dart around, looking for threats or God knows what, no, it was his voice and the different tone he used when he talked about John that convinced Mycroft the boy might be better off at Baker Street. If John was the teddy bear then anyone who tried to hurt him would get a sucker punch to the stomach or most likely worse now that Sherlock had access to guns. _But, I guess that is not necessarily a bad thing for the boy. Hmmm?_

“Did you not learn your lesson from last time?” he’d asked, positive they both knew he was talking about Victor. The young boy, who was only a year older than John was strikingly similar to Sherlock’s new obsession. Young, strong _or at least acted strong_ , smart, took too much responsibility, and there was also some characteristic that made them loners, separate from their peers in one way or another. However, according to Sherlock, they were both drastically different in ‘heart’ and not to mention Trevor’s family had money where as John’s mother did not, which surprisingly plays a large factor even though most will not admit this or become offended when it’s brought to the table.

No matter how different or similar the boys were, that still did not change the fact that Sherlock’s demeanor had changed immensely ever since John had come into his life. _I think it is time I meet this ‘special’ boy._ As they walked up the stairs that was when Sherlock decided to mention Moriarty’s presence and visit to Baker Street. This was all he needed, not only did he have tremendous amounts of paper work to do to protect Britain and make sure his little brother’s actions were covered from every angle, but now he had to deal with that plague of a man, too. _I need a vacation._  

“Hello John, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he told the boy, who looked smaller in real life than he did in the pictures and surveillance tapes. Mycroft watched, both sad and awestruck, as the two people in front of him calmed immediately as they embraced. Sherlock had become agitated from their conversation but was now losing the tension in the wrinkles around his eyes and the mounds of his shoulders. The worst part of the scene before him though, was how John, who had two casts on, no doubt Sherlock’s tactic for making the boy dependent, some sort of cock ring based on the slight tenting of the duvet, and naked with two grown men in the room seemed to melt as soon as his younger brother put an arm around the small shoulders.

_It’s done._ Mycroft knew John’s strings were no longer his own as the boy defended, albeit poorly, by still defended Sherlock when it came to who broke the arm and wrist. The sad part was that young John wasn’t even old enough to know he had strings and now they were being held by someone else.

It was a moral dilemma, which Mycroft hated because contrary to popular belief, he did have a heart but he just chose to place his sense and intellect above all when making decisions. On paper, everything was perfect, Sherlock was staying out of trouble and off drugs, John’s success in life increased by a tremendous 81 percent if he stayed at Baker Street, allowing the boy to have a greater chance at becoming a doctor. Those were all facts, statistical facts written in black ink but the negatives…well, those were nothing but societal taboos and emotions, which only inhibited John and Sherlock from reaching their full potential. _It’s done._

When he looked at John splayed out on Sherlock’s chest, he saw that teddy bear so long ago being suffocated by his brother’s relentless hold. Mycroft knew events were unpredictable, even more so when dealing with Sherlock, so he took it upon himself to give John a steady platform to jump onto if things went south. “I will leave my number in your mobile in case you ever need to get in touch with me, yes? Sherlock, walk me out,” he said, nodding once to the boy and leaving him to his fate.   

When they arrived downstairs, away from John’s ears, Mycroft turned on his brother. “You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, I know you blocked his calls to his mother, which I understand, but you will not,” he jabbed his finger in harder to make his point clear, “I repeat, you will NOT, block his calls if he needs to contact me. So help me Sherlock, if you harm that boy or forbid him from contacting me for anything! I will castrate you and put an end to this drug you so desperately need a hit from. Do you understand me, brother mine?” Mycroft was satisfied when he saw Sherlock gulp and pale before his eyes because they both knew he meant every word. This had to be the last time, for both their sakes and for the innocent brainwashed and heart-washed boy up in Sherlock’s bed.

Next on the laundry list was to recruit Lestrade because if shit hit the fan, it was always important to have the Detective Inspector on the rolodex. His driver took Mycroft to his own office and Anthea texted saying the DI was on his way and that she had taken the liberty of purchasing a bottle of Bulleit Rye Whiskey as it was Greg’s choice liquor. He would be forever indebted to his assistant and honestly, didn’t know what he would do without her.

An hour later he was sitting at his desk, two fingers of Rye in his crystal tumbler, watching Greg swirl his glass around, staring intently at the ice chips. “So, are you going to tell me what is wrong with Sherlock? Is it cocaine again because I’ve been keeping him away from the drug dealer cases,” the man defended, knowing Mycroft had placed much responsibility on his head when it came to Sherlock.

He smiled and took a sip, trying not to grimace at the harsh whiskey but if Mycroft knew anything, it was that appearances were everything. _If your guest likes this poor excuse for a whiskey you must outwardly enjoy it as well as to offer a common ground._ He raised his glass to show his appreciation and then got down to business. “No, no it is nothing like that.”

“Well he’s been acting very strange lately, not making my officers cry for one,” Greg spoke, taking another sip.

“Hmm, yes, it appears my brother has found a permanent, shall we say, drug to smooth his rougher edges.”

The DI stopped twirling his glass and looked up at Mycroft, his eyes showing he knew exactly what kind of ‘drug’ was capable of such strength. “Not again.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” was all Mycroft said, waiting to see how the other would react.

“Well, you are going to put a stop to it this time aren't you? I mean, look at what happened to Victor, the kid is still messed up.”

“By ‘messed up’ you mean going to Oxford and inheriting more than you or I will ever see? Is that the kind of ‘messed up’ you are talking about, Lestrade?” Mycroft put emphasis on the term ‘messed up’ as it always frustrated him at how flippantly it was used and the meaning was too broad to have affect. _Everyone is ‘messed up’ but if you have money…well, then at least you can pretend you are not messed up as wholly._

“Money is not everything, Mr. Holmes,” Greg spat, not aware that he had already placed his foot in the trap.

“Well of course it is,” Mycroft chuckled slightly, placing the glass to his lips but more for show than placing that cheap liquor to his tongue, “unless of course, you would like me to stop wiring that money to Leeds because after all…it’s not that important.” Only then did he take a drink, watching the man’s eyes narrow but his shoulders fall. Beating a lesser opponent gave Mycroft no satisfaction, _well perhaps a little but only for the mental stimulation of it, not the victory of watching other men crumble on the weak foundation they’d built._

“So this John Watson, the file you sent me, he’s staying with Sherlock indefinitely?”

“Yes, that is the plan, I’ve already taken care of the legalities and loose ends so there is no need to worry about reputation,” Mycroft added, earning a frustrated burst of laughter from the other man.

“Well, as long as my reputation is okay that’s all that matters,” sarcasm laced his voice but Mycroft could tell it was just the man’s coping mechanism.

“And your mother, let’s not forget about her.”

Greg grunted in agreement. “So then why am I here? What do you need me to do?”

“Well nothing really, unless things turn south. Sherlock will still help the Yard with its cases and everything will be normal, save for my brother’s more appropriate behavior, which I’m sure you will appreciate.”

“Normal,” Greg sighed again, draining his glass and accepting when Mycroft offered more.

“Yes, as I said, you need not worry yourself unless there is need for immediate interference, which, in seeing how Sherlock interacts with John, I do not foresee any problems that cannot be taken care of with a simple signature,” _or bribe._ Is what Mycroft did not say because although true, it was still impolite to talk about such things when the other man in the room was among such people. “Do I have your word you will be of assistance if needed, Officer Lestrade?”

With another sigh, perhaps self-loathing or acceptance, and a quick gulp of the rest of his whiskey, Greg nodded. “Yes. Damn, this John must be some kind of kid. Hell, I’ve never seen Sherlock so calm at a crime scene before, he only called Anderson a moron once.” Greg stood up with a groan, thanked Mycroft for the drink and left without asking anymore questions regarding his new duties or Sherlock and John’s relationship. _That the Lord for small favors._ Although, the DI was a smart man and most likely knew everything that was happening to John, he just couldn’t bring himself to ask, which again, Mycroft was more than thankful for.

**The day of the shooting**

 Mycroft had been sitting in his office when a text came over his phone at the same time Anthea burst through his door, panic in her eyes. _This can’t be good._

“Sir, it’s-“ he held up his hand, silencing her to read his texts from Sherlock.

**Sherlock: I need your help**

“What is it, Anthea?” he asked while typing his response.

**Mycroft: Please tell me John is okay**

“It’s Moriarty, Mr. Holmes…”

**Sherlock: Yes. Moriarty is dead, I shot him**

**Mycroft: I’m on my way**

“What does the video show?” Mycroft asked his assistant, getting into the backseat and ordering the driver to take them to Baker Street.

“We don’t have video but the audio picked up from John’s mobile indicates the boy was the one who shot Moriarty, Sir.” _What?_

“Are you sure?” he asked, picturing that small boy pointing a gun at the world’s most dangerous man and pulling the trigger. _No, it can’t be._ “Contact Lestrade when we get there. Keep him on the line until I figure out exactly what happened. I want our men to be first responders, is that understood?”

“Yes sir, actually there has already been a call made to 999 reporting gun shots heard and Lestrade is on the line. Would you like to speak to him now?”

Mycroft hesitated only a moment before taking the phone as he stepped outside and began walking up to 221B. “Lestrade?”

“What the fuck happened?” The man’s voice was angry and Mycroft could tell he was driving.

“That is what I am about to find out. I’ll keep you on the line,” Mycroft put the phone on mute and ran up the stairs. Though he would never admit it later, his jaw dropped at the sight of Jim Moriarty on the floor, blood pooling below him, and Sherlock cradling a small boy who was in shock.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock’s voice was high, his eyes wide as he rocked John slowly, trying to coax some type of reaction other than shivers and silence from the pale boy.

“Tell me what happened, Sherlock,” he demanded, looking at his watch to see they had five minutes before the flat was raided and all hell broke loose.

“I shot-“ Sherlock started.

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock! I will help John but I need to know exactly what happened,” he was losing his temper, which thankfully…or not thankfully seemed to only happen when dealing with his brother.

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking down at John who only stared past him with water blue eyes, “I used John as bait to catch Moriarty. He was on top of John, h-hurting him so I tackled him and we fought…then he-he was m-me! He was me, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted, his face scrunched up and his face red with pain and torment at something only his mind could see.

“Who shot Moriarty, Sherlock? I need to know,” he pulled out his phone, ready to tell Lestrade the next step if John truly was the shooter.

“He was going to kill me…I-I was going to kill me and then John shot him…John saved me, he saved me Mycroft!” Sherlock was still rambling as Mycroft stepped out of the room and into the hallway.

“Lestrade, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m almost to Baker Street.”

“It was John. John killed Moriarty, not Sherlock.”

“What?! How-why?”

“He was protecting both himself and Sherlock. It was self-defense, however, that is not something my brother or I want on his record and I’m sure you would agree, yes?” There was silence on the other end. “Damn it Lestrade, do as you’re told!” he snapped more angry at himself for letting this happen than the other man who actually used his heart and morals to base his decision.

“Fine,” was the short answer he received.

“Good, now I want you and only you to take the boy back to the station and be there for every step of the process, do you understand? When he gives his statement, when he meets his mother, when he does any interviews, I’m sure they will do some sort of rape kit and I want you there for all of it and make sure John does not admit to shooting Moriarty.” Again, there was silence on the other end but noise was coming from downstairs as the police arrived. “Lestrade?”

“Yes, I’ll take care of the boy…did he really shoot him, I mean on his own without Sherlock telling him to?”

“It appears that way, yes,” _sadly, I think John sealed his own fate more than Sherlock or I ever could._ “Are you here?”

“Yes, I’m coming up now and there are two other cars pulling up as well.”

Mycroft hung up and went back into the room. His heart actually ached for the first time in six years when he saw John, retreating back into his own mind because his young psyche couldn’t handle the fact he’d shot somebody, and tried to stick his thumb in his mouth as he gripped Sherlock’s shirt with white knuckles. At that moment, he knew he needed to get the two separated himself before the ignorant officers came and caused more damage by ripping them apart. “Sherlock, they are coming, it’s unavoidable, you know that but I promise John is going to be in good hands. I called Lestrade and he is going to take him, no one else, I promise. Now, you need to let go,” he told his brother, who looked shocked, confused, angry, sad and many other emotions that he hadn’t seen from the man in years. Mycroft lightly touched Sherlock’s fingers, which were wrapped around John’s torso and gently pulled them back, earning a surprisingly heart wrenching moan from his brother. “Let go of him,” he said again, seeing that teddy bear held around the neck but now it had stuffing popping out of the seams and an eye missing.

“John,” Sherlock croaked as Mycroft finally got the boy up in his arms and handed him off to Lestrade who was now standing behind him. The DI’s face was pale and his eyes wide at the sight of the normally cold aloof detective so wrecked on the bed.

After they took John away, leaving the boy in capable and bribed hands, Mycroft felt like he was facing a huge chess game where the one with the most money _and wit_ would be the winner. He had watched how Sherlock had gone from calm and docile to panicked, angry, and belligerent at the drop of a hat. The same process repeated again and again as Sherlock cursed at the solicitors and officers who tried to question him but would answer all the questions when it came to telling them that he was the one who shot Moriarty, not John.

In the end though they had worked his sentence down to ten years, well at least that’s what the documentation said. As Mycroft twirled around the Courvoisier XO in a fine brandy snifter, he laughed and chatted one by one with all those who had their greedy little hands in his brother’s case; from the psychiatrist who talked with John from the officer who drove Sherlock to the station, they all acquiesced eventually as some went home with chocolate liquors for their wives or a few other blunt tokens of ‘agreement.’ Honestly, it repulsed him as he finished with the last minion who walked out with a measly two tickets for the National Live Theatre.

Through all of this, Sherlock was sitting, frothing at the mouth, at a vacation home Anthea rented in the States. _As far away from John as possible for right now. That’s what’s best for everyone, I think._ It was best this way, Mycroft reminded himself after manipulating and bribing so many. _Better for Sherlock, for John, for myself, and for the prisons._ Mycroft knew if his brother sat in a prison cell all day his mind would surely devour itself to a point of desperation, and then he would either easily escape and find John, burn down the prison, or possible even murder the other inmates who irritated him. No, it was best to keep Sherlock on a tight lead, practically nonexistent, and let him solve crimes in America or perhaps search out the rest of Moriarty’s web of child pornography and molesters. That was how it had to be, though the call was not easy, it was what Mycroft had always done and always would do to protect his brother and England.

**Present Day**

“So how is our John, I heard he had quite an episode a while back but now he’s ready for school, yes?” Mycroft asked Lestrade. The man had bags under his eyes and Mycroft noticed his wedding ring that he usually fiddled with was gone.

“He’s broken,” was all Greg offered.

“Yes, I would imagine so but he is a strong lad and I have the best psychiatrist working with him. She’s trying to help him realize what happened to his mind, I believe.”

“You believe? YOU BELIEVE!” Greg shouted, throwing his glass against the corner. Amber liquid and shards of crystal smashed and scattered across the floor. “You didn’t see the look in that kid’s eyes, Mycroft! John Watson doesn’t exist anymore, Sherlock made sure of that and all you can say is ‘I believe she’s trying to help him.’ Bloody hell, I’m done,” the DI said and stood up. _Oh dear here we go._ Mycroft sighed, having experienced this three times already with the Inspector. He meant well, truly he did, but this battle with his conscious was getting on Mycroft’s nerves. _It’s over and done with, shoved into the closet for no one to see._

“Greg,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face, “we’ve been over this before, yes? If you don’t want to be under my employment you simply have to say so. I will stop the payments to Leeds and never bother you again. However, I do expect you to keep these past dealings with John, Victor, and Baskerville quiet as you were an accomplice in all three cases.” He added, his voice serious.

“I just…I need a break,” both men sighed, one in defeat while the other was content at a solid but unsatisfying victory.

“Of course, I understand. You were a great help with John and I already have people watching him around the clock, most likely until he graduates. I do care about him, Lestrade, although I know it does not seem so, but I make the hard choices to protect him better than anyone can. Please, I ask you to reconsider your resignation and come back to talk to me when you aren’t so upset, yes.” Mycroft let a sympathetic smile come across his face as Greg walked out of the room, his shoulders slumped slightly.    

Only moments later, there was a slight buzzing in his side pocket. Someone was calling him on his private mobile. _The only people who have that number are Sherlock who is too pissed to call me right now, Anthea who is in the other room…and John._

He looked at the number but he didn’t recognize the caller. “Mycroft Holmes speaking,” he answered, pressing the button to call Anthea into the room.

“M-Mycroft,” he heard a shaky voice on the other end.

“John?” he asked but heard a click as Anthea walked in. “John?” he snapped once more, panic starting to set in. “Anthea, send the CCTV feed to my phone and let Travis know I’m coming down and to get the car ready.”

“Sir?” She asked, stepping back as Mycroft threw on his jacket and grabbed his umbrella quickly.

“John, I think he’s in trouble.”

It took fifteen minutes to realize where John was going and Mycroft could only hope he’d get there in time to stop the boy. _How could this happen? How could this happen, I’ve fixed everything why is John going to jump?_ It confused him, pissed him off, and scared him that maybe he had misjudged John completely, missed some vital clue that would end in the boy’s suicide. _What have I done?_ Out of the car window he saw the small shivering boy standing with his hands braced on the safety bars. “Stop the car!”

“John! Wait!” he shouted, climbing out of the car with the agility he thought he’d lost twenty years ago. John paused for only a moment but the tension in the boy’s neck ensured that he was prepared to jump no matter what. As the blonde hair disappeared below the safety bar and his trainers came off the ground, Mycroft leapt, stretching his arm out as far as it would go and caught the waist of John’s trousers. He yanked back, probably giving the boy whiplash, _but that’s better than the alternative,_ and pulled them both to the ground, his arms tightly around John’s chest. John was too important, he realized as he held the squirming child in his arms that this was his brother’s sanity. _That’s why he wouldn’t let go of the teddy bear. John made him feel, changed him more than Sherlock even realized._ Mycroft laughed to himself, mostly in relief of getting there in time but also at learning and greater understanding of his brother’s emotional attachment to John.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” was all John kept repeating as Travis helped him lift the boy into the back seat. Mycroft told the driver to drive around for a while and then, he looked upon John and how the child seemed to calm a bit when he placed his hand on his head and lightly hushed him. It was Sherlock, Sherlock who had braided these strings and created these buttons to make John dependent and susceptible to him and him alone. “M-Mycroft?” he whispered, a hint of recognition came into the blue eyes.

“You’re alright, John.”

“I’m sorry, please don’t be mad me. I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he bit his lip, new tears welling up in his eyes. _Damn you Sherlock._ Mycroft sighed and pulled the boy closer even though, unlike his brother, he was not the cuddling type.

“You think this is your fault?” He asked, already knowing the answer as John nodded into his chest. _That’s why, oh Sherlock._ Mycroft actually smiled with triumph but then frowned at his new data. John was too kind, too brave, too loyal, too caring; it’s what drew Sherlock to him in the first place and why he was so affected by the boy’s presence _and also why John just tried to throw himself of the bridge._ Only a person who could blame themselves when they’ve done nothing wrong only to protect the one they care about could tame that little boy with dark curls who needed to possess and devour.

“John look at me,” he pulled him back so he could look into those sad broken eyes, “everything that has happened, even Moriarty’s death is not your fault. It is mine and Sherlock’s but not yours, do you understand me?” John looked down, showing that no, he didn’t believe anything Mycroft had just told him. “Okay, why do you think it’s your fault?” he asked as they continued to drive.

“B-Because I was on the chat room, I wanted to stay with Sherlock, I wanted to bait Moriarty…I-I’m the reason he’s in jail! I caused all this!” John tried to hold it together and was giving it a valiant effort until the end when he let out the most horrible sob Mycroft had ever heard. It was naïve, of course, Mycroft knew but that didn’t matter because John believed it, John blamed himself for… _no, I don’t think that’s why you blame yourself, John. Sherlock would have removed some of that kind of behavior and you are smarter than that. What do you blame yourself for and why are you projecting it…oh._ “I’m so-so sorry.”

“John, I want to ask you something, okay?” he asked gently, knowing how fragile the boy’s mind was and how this revelation might be too much. John nodded, listening intently. “Why do you really blame yourself? It’s not because you think you put Sherlock in jail, is it?”

“W-what? I don’t understand,” John whispered pulling back slightly.

“You,” he paused, reassuring himself that this had to be done and Mycroft was the only one who was willing to do the dirty work pulling the weeds away so the flowers could grow again. “You blame yourself for wanting to stay,” John’s face contorted slightly, unable to hide what he knew deep down was true, “and for not being strong enough to carry the things Sherlock offered to carry for you, does that sound about right?”

“I…I-“ he squeezed his eyes together and tried to roll in on himself at finally hearing somebody else say the words. People had called him the victim, Sherlock’s victim, and all this time John had convinced himself that he was taking advantage of the man so he didn’t have to carry the burdens of his old life. _Damn it Sherlock, how did you miss this? How did I miss this?_

“It’s okay, John, shhh,” he did his best to comfort the boy as he held him in his arms, trying to make the position similar to the one he knew Sherlock would use. “It’s okay to feel that way, you did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong, I need you to understand that. Sherlock messed up-“ as soon as he said those words, John sat up and actually shoved Mycroft’s shoulders a bit.

“Why-why would you say that? You don’t know,” the boy’s words were strong even though they were high pitched due to his stuffy nose.

“John, he does love you, I’m not saying that because honestly, I’ve never seen act like the way he acts around you,” a small smile came to John’s face. “However, I am saying that he hurt you-“

“No he didn’t, I wanted the sex!”

“Please, just listen to me okay,” Mycroft said, not wanting to hear those words out of a fourteen year olds mouth again. “Look at it this way; let’s say you had to do one hundred pushups every morning for one year, yes. It would be hard at the beginning but then you would become really strong and by the end of that year you could do the hundred easily, right?” John nodded but Mycroft could tell the boy didn’t know what pushups had to do with him and Sherlock. “But what if someone else came along and said you only had to do ten and they would do the other ninety for you. Then, it would be really easy but by the end of the year you wouldn’t be as strong.” He finished his little story, proud at how he was able to think abstractly enough to explain a complicated matter in such terms.

“So…I shouldn’t-umm,” John floundered a bit, rubbing his eyes to get the wetness away.

“Sherlock offered to take away your pushups, resulting in you losing the ability to do them yourself. Does that make sense?” John mulled it over for a good three minutes before finally, a spark of life came back into the eyes.

“So, you’re saying Sherlock was trying to help me and take care of me but it’ll hurt me in the long run?”

“Basically, yes,” Mycroft nodded and smiled as he could almost see the relief rising from the boy’s shoulders. Once the confusion was gone it seemed John was able to work out what was going on in his mind and why he was feeling those feelings. _Smart boy. You’re stronger than everyone thought, aren’t you?_ Confusion, Mycroft knew, was were the winds of madness blew through the trees and if John was stuck in that forest alone…well, no wonder the child smashed his head into a table until he bled. “Can I ask you something else, John? A theoretical question of sorts?” John nodded again. “If you could have Sherlock back now, after what I’ve just told you, would you?”

Mycroft focused his complete attention on John’s movements, his eyes, the twitch in his fingers, everything as to not make the wrong decision, the most important decision of his life possibly. He could obviously put the two back together but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, unlike Sherlock, he was not insane. If John was able to realize how important it was to stand on his own and not become dependent on Sherlock and Mycroft had a nice long conversation with his brother of the same, then perhaps it would be best to let his brother be happy.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation and Mycroft tried to keep his face from falling. The boy had learned nothing and because of that he would have to prevent Sherlock from ever seeing him, at least until John was grown.

“Why?” he had to ask as curiosity was one of his few weaknesses.

“Because I’m alone,” that…that was not what he’d expected, “and Sherlock’s alone.” Now that was most unexpected. After everything he knew, John still worried about Sherlock being in pain. _You do not deserve him Sherlock._ “Do you think…umm…in ten years, will he still want to be with me?” John asked, his innocence painful.

“I do believe so, John,” he said, wondering what he was going to tell Sherlock now and how long he would keep them apart. “Here, it’s a note from Sherlock. He wanted me to give it to you before he went to jail,” Mycroft handed the piece of paper over to John, recalling Sherlock forcing it into Mycroft’s jacked pocket before he got on the plane for America. To his surprise, John read it out loud.

“Dear John, I hope this finds you well. This is hard for me to write as I already miss your touch, your laugh, your hair, everything John, I miss everything. I’m sorry this ended so quickly and I was not there for you when you needed me most, that is my only regret in our time together.

I need you to promise me that you will go and become a Doctor, ignoring those moronic arseholes who tell you you can’t. You know I believe in you and all you have to do is believe in yourself. When I get out I expect to see your name on at least three of those medical books we studied together. I will wait for you John and if you still want me when I get out, I will be there for you. I will always wait for you. Love, Sherlock.” John smiled and tried to whip away the tear splotches he left on the parchment. The boy looked over at him and smiled, “I’ll wait too.”

                 


	13. Between Two Lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV one month after Moriarty's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm yeah, so you remember at the very beginning I said this was going to have a dark ending and then I was all like 'no, no, I can't do that to poor John'...hehe...well, I changed my mind. Due to all the comments about adding a third part to the series and the amazing support I've received for this fic, I've come up with a darker ending, which will allow me to continue on with their story. So really, you guys are to blame for snatching away John's happy ending(:
> 
> Anyways, I will probably start part three sometime next week, so make sure you are subbed to the series. Again, thank you to every single one of you who left a comment or kudo, I really appreciate it!

Chapter 13 – Between Two Lungs

“Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!”  

― Dale Wasserman, Man of La Mancha

**One month after the shooting**          

Sherlock paced back and forth, his hand running spastically through his hair while his teeth gnawed at his lower lip. It wasn’t fair, and not only wasn’t it fair, it was wrong, plain and simple. John couldn’t survive without him, it wasn’t just one of those meaningless sayings boy’s used to get someone in bed, no, this was a scientific fact that his boy had become dependent on him. John was strong of course, that’s why he picked him, but now, Sherlock had whittled away at those sturdy legs, carving them into ornate sculptures of what the boy used to be and now…now there was nothing there to support him. _I am not there to support him._

“If you refuse to help the FBI with their cold cases like Mycroft instructed, at least go sit out on the terrace, Sherlock,” Anthea called from the small room she’d turned into an office. “His plane just landed and he will be very unhappy if he purchased this vacation home in Florida and you still give a ghost a run for its money,” she said, never looking up from her laptop.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the opportunity to gather any scraps of information he could of his John’s whereabouts. “Did he talk to John? Did he give him the letter?”

Her fingers stopped their rapid movement and she turned around to face him. The sympathy in her eyes wasn’t real, but even if it were it would have made him feel just as strange, cold. “If I tell you, will you go sit outside and look at the ocean until he gets here?”

“Yes,” was his quick answer.

She sighed once, answering him as she turned her back like it was nothing, “he said he would wait,” it was everything.

“He did?” Sherlock’s face contorted slightly, trying to picture just how the words sounded coming from John’s lips, how his blue eyes would have sparkled as he read the letter. “How did he say it? Was he upset? Was he happy? Was he-“

“Terrace. Now.” She pointed towards the sliding glass door with one hand as the other continued to type.

Sherlock mumbled to himself as he opened the door, letting the warm salty air envelope him. The sun tingled and heated his skin as he sat down on what seemed to be some sort of hammock chair. Mycroft had chosen a condominium right next to the ocean and Sherlock watched the white sand as it was darkened by the waves coming in at high tide, taking some out to sea but leaving others to pack deeper and darker on the shore. The sound of the surf crashing was so loud, too loud, causing Sherlock to cover his ears until he was able to dive into his mind palace, taking solace in the only quiet room he knew existed, and tuned out the rest of the world.

The room he dedicated to John had changed many times, just like the boy himself. At first it started in the dungeons he’d created for Victor, the events of Baskerville, and Moriarty, ignorantly grouping John with those inferior memories where the monsters hid. Then, when they made love for the first time, Sherlock moved everything to the small office two floors up from the basement. One half circle window with blue stained glass allowed light to shine into the room, illuminating the beauty of the memories John gave him and, in turn, scared away the darkness when it tried to sneak out of the dungeons.

However, when Sherlock decided to keep John, that room became abandoned as they both moved into the more spacious study on the main floor. The furniture was rich mahogany and chocolate colored leather, a brick fireplace stood in the corner, casting a soft glow on the burgundy and gold Persian rug. The entire ambiance was warm as he held John on the wide couch, looking at all the small objects on the desk and mantle, which served as memorandums to their new life on Baker Street. His favorite piece, the one that was always his first stop when he entered the room, was an antique Edison gramophone with dark cherry wood and an engraved brass horn, which recalled every time John moaned Sherlock’s name into the man’s ear. All Sherlock had to do was hold the object and a rush of memories would flood him, keeping him sated until he could hold the real John in his arms.

Now though, after John had shot Moriarty and cast the darkness farther down than it had ever been, Sherlock dedicated an entire floor to his boy. The little objects representing facts and recollections of everything that was John spread throughout the dining hall, the grand entrance and a dozen other rooms, which would soon be filled when they were together again. His mind palace was full of chandeliers, candelabras, huge glass windows with billowing burgundy drapes, and stained glass bringing light where there was none.

Sherlock went over to the soft leather couch in the study and laid down flat on his back, his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, his mind calming and the waves dying. A warm weight pressed over his body, the smell of John’s sweet hair filled his nose when the boy came running into the room giggling and curled up on top of him. _This is right,_ he thought to himself, _you belong with me, John, always._ “Sherlock,” a distant voice called to him. The detective opened his eyes to see John burst into a cloud of smoke. “Sherlock!” The voice shouted, coming closer as he was forced to leave the room and the comfort of his mind. “Sherlock!” It was his brother’s voice, which brought him out and into the dull Johnless world he was forced to live in.

“What is it?!” Sherlock snapped at him, squinting when the sun glared at him. A black silhouette came into view, eclipsing the sun enough for Sherlock to adjust his eyes.

“Good morning to you too, brother mine,” Mycroft said, slight amusement in his voice. “Were you in his room again? How big is it now, hmm?”

“None of your business,” Sherlock stood up and pushed his way past his brother to get inside and out of the heat. “Why did you have to send me to this hell hole anyways, whoever says they like this much sun is either eighty years old or lying or both. At least in jail I wouldn’t be subjected to deducing seniors who haven’t realized their spouse is cheating on them with someone else in the same ‘active’ community.” Sherlock spat, thumping himself dramatically back onto the sofa, which was an odd shade of sea foam green. “Oh yes, I picked up a few brochures for you. This one looks rather nice, they have crochet and water aerobics every Wednesday,” he pointed to the pamphlets on the table.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home here, Sherlock,” Mycroft ignored his brother’s ‘huff’ and sat down across from him, “that’s good.”

“Why? Why is that good?” Sherlock sat up quickly, already not liking where the conversations was going. Being separated from John was throwing him off his game, this was unacceptable. _I need John._ “How is John? Has he asked about me?” The look on his brother’s face, although Mycroft gave a valiant attempt at hiding it, made Sherlock panic. “What happened?”

“Sherlock, you must realize,” he paused, “Anthea, would you mind making us a cup of coffee, please? Thank you,” Mycroft waited until the assistant walked into the kitchen. “You hurt John, Sherlock.” _What?! I did not, he loves me and needs me!_

“I protected him, Mycroft, and don’t-“

“I don’t know how to explain this to you for you to finally understand. Honestly I don’t even know if you are capable of understanding. I tried when you were with Victor but…”

“Victor was different, you said so yourself. John needs me. He has no one else to take care of him. I need him!” Sherlock shouted and was shocked at the lack of control he had over his emotions. This wasn’t like him, at least not when he was with John, his John who tamed the worst beasts inside him, who kept the lights on, the candles lit, and the doors sealed. The longer he was away from Baker Street, from the warm touch of that small hand, Sherlock could feel himself eroding, the rust building up and eating away at the locks.

“But he doesn’t need you, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him but it was obvious in every aspect of the other man’s features, his posture, that John had cracked during the month they’d been separated. _A fight? Self-harm? Suicide?! Oh God, John!_

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Mycroft, not when John is at stake. What happened?” Sherlock actually growled out the words, feeling tremors inside him, a preamble to the earthquakes that threatened just on the fringes of his mind.

“It was my fault, well, at least my inattention, in that I failed to see how far you had groomed the boy to your liking.”

“What happened?” Sherlock gripped the edge of the cushion under him.

“There was a fight at his school. Some Neanderthal boys where making fun of John and he attacked one of them.” _That’s my boy._ “His mother was at work, apparently, so she was unable to come pick him up.” _As expected. She doesn’t deserve John, my John._ “Then, he called me and hung up but I was able to track him to the Itchen Bridge before he…before he did something very stupid.” _I’m so sorry I wasn’t there John. I’ll find a way back to you, I promise._

“And you’re blaming me for this?!” Sherlock was fuming now. The knowledge that his boy almost killed himself because he couldn’t be with his lover and the fact that now Mycroft was blaming him even though the bastard was the one who made him leave the country. No, this was not turning out well at all. “You are the one who is keeping me from him, Mycroft, or do you seriously think I’m here by choice?”

“That’s not why he did it, Sherlock,” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration, concern, and uncertainty broadcasted from his movements. “Do you not even realize how much your tampering with his mind affected the poor boy? John thinks you are in jail and he actually blames himself. Now tell me, Sherlock, use that brilliant brain of yours and deduce what kind of mind set someone has to have to think like that? To blame themselves even when it is blatantly obvious they had nothing to do with the outcome? My God, Sherlock, look at the evidence of what you’ve done,” Mycroft shook his head, a shocked smile on his face that meant John’s actions had even awed him.

_Even now my boy is trying to protect me._ “He would have been fine if I was there with him,” Sherlock mumbled, ignoring the cup of coffee Anthea brought in and set down on the table in front of him.

“That’s the point I’m trying to make, Sherlock, you can’t always be there for him. John needs to grow up on his own first, learn how to stand on his own two feet. You can teach him how to walk but you cannot carry him, which would be a disservice to both of you, possibly a fatal one to young John.” Mycroft sipped his coffee, gazing at Sherlock intently over the brim of the cup.

“Did he read the letter?” Sherlock asked, not willing to get into their age old argument about what was actually a disservice. What the elder Holmes called harmful, the younger embraced as the only kindness he could offer.

“He did,” was all that was offered.

“And?” Sherlock prompted, edging forward on his seat slightly.

“He is still very confused, Sherlock, but…”

“But what? He wants to stay with me doesn’t he, wait for me ‘til the end of time?” Sherlock smiled broadly at the slight crinkle in Mycroft’s eye that told him he was right.

“As I said, John is still very confused and trying to unravel the knots you tied so intricately around his mind.”

“But?”

“He said he would wait for you. However, you must realize John is still a child and has a lot of-“

“He said he would wait! That proves it right there, Mycroft, don’t deny me just to take revenge for all the paper work and expensive scotch you had to buy to bail me out.”

“Sherlock-“

“Better yet, don’t punish John from being with the one he loves for petty revenge,” Sherlock added. After all, having an innocent boy on your side was always a trump card, so why not use it.

“Because he is not ready!” Mycroft snapped at him, slamming down his cup. Before Sherlock could respond, his brother stood up, looming over him as he leaned on his umbrella. “You will devour him because he still wants to be devoured, little brother. I will not let you near him until one of you are capable of a true healthy relationship. Obviously, it is not going to be you, it will never be you,” Mycroft shook his head, looking down at the floor. “Five years Sherlock, five years and John will be nineteen years old-“

“You can’t-“

“Five years! And if he still wants to be with you, then by all means you two have my blessing to bask in each other’s madness. Until then, you are to stay on my short lead while you either work for the FBI here or hunt down Moriarty’s network of child abductions and slave trade. You will keep a tracker on you at all times, a monthly check in will be required and if you miss any of them or your tracker ‘stops working’ then I will hunt you down and make sure you never see John again, is that understood Sherlock?”

“Five years?” Sherlock whispered, mulling over his brother’s words, trying desperately to find a loop hole that he could scoot through and be with his John in five hours. Nothing, there was no possible way he could be with him, watch him perhaps, but if the look in Mycroft’s eyes was anything to go off of, Sherlock would have to wait the whole five years. _I need him._ “I-I don’t know if I can, Mycroft,” Sherlock admitted, already feeling the candles in his mind flickering and dying, wax pooling uselessly on the marble floor.

“Perhaps you will grow up as well, little brother, once you make it through your withdrawals so to speak. Which brings me to another point, if I catch you with any narcotics or those homemade drugs, I will add another five years and you won’t see John until he is twenty four, I mean it Sherlock; do not test me on this.”

It was useless, he had sealed his own fate with his recklessness and now John would suffer. That’s what Sherlock was worried about most, _that’s what lovers do,_ John being alone in this cruel world, that little boy who cried in his arms would have to face the cold without him. Even though Sherlock wouldn’t be allowed to see him, there were ways, there were always ways to keep tabs in case something happened, his homeless network being one of them.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice pulled him out of his musings.

“You will keep an eye on him,” it wasn’t a question.

“I will.”

“Five years?”

“Five years.”

“Fine,” _John will wait for me. He needs me._ “Now can I start digging into Moriarty’s network?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said slowly, “Tech will be in contact within the next twenty-four hours to fit you with your tracker. After that you are free to roam anywhere but Southampton, I trust we won’t have to have this conversation again, yes?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock dismissed him, lying back down on the couch and propping his fingers under his chin to begin planning his attack. If he timed everything perfectly, it would take exactly five years for him to expose the network, never giving the detective a moment to rest and think about his John. It would be like a in a cryogenic chamber of sorts, sustaining his mind on ice until he was back to what really mattered. Then, he would go straight from the high of tracking into the beautiful bliss of John’s arms. It was perfect. _He would wait and John would wait._

**Five Years Later**

“Welcome back, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, tipping his head slightly as he stepped into the car.

“Where is he?” was the first thing Sherlock asked. It had been a tedious flight from the Ukraine but he had finally exposed the last child pornography ring that was in Moriarty’s dying web. It had been five years, five long years of hunting down cruel, despicable men who used boys and girls like they were nothing but objects to make money. Sherlock was running out of places in his dungeon for everything he had seen, and with nothing, no John to calm the maelstrom brewing inside, the detective was crumbling to keep the darkness at bay until his boy could fight them off.

Throughout the years it had proved much harder than he first anticipated to keep eyes on John. Not because of his inadequate network, the homeless men and women had never let him down, but it was Mycroft who intercepted their communication. The last bit of information he’d gathered on his John was that the boy was still living with his mother at seventeen but after that, Sherlock had no idea what John was doing now.

“It’s good to see you too,” Mycroft rolled his eyes but told the driver to take them to Baker Street.

“Where is he? Why did you stop my surveillance on him? I haven’t seen any pictures of him for two years, Mycroft! Two years!” It had killed Sherlock the first month he’d stopped receiving updates, but he was so deep undercover they would have killed him if he tried to leave. It was horrible but Sherlock had done everything he was supposed to, according to Mycroft, and now he needed John more than air. At least, that’s how Sherlock felt, five years without breathing and now the air was right in front of him but he still couldn’t inhale until he possessed it again.

“John is fine, Sherlock, he’s grown into a fine young man over the past five years. It seems you haven’t changed though, pity.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, feeling himself ready to pounce if he didn’t get the answers he’d waited for for so long.

“He is living with a flat mate near White Chapel in the Greater London area. Our young John is preparing to start his quest to become a Doctor at Bart’s and the London School of Medicine and Dentistry, you’d be very proud.”

“I am very proud! Now take me to him, Mycroft, or so help me…wait, a flat mate?” There was something in his brother’s tone, something indicating not just a flat mate.

“That’s correct. He met her at the coffee shop where she works, they have similar interests apparently, nice enough girl and a clean record.”

_That’s…that’s not right, no…that’s not supposed to happen. Who is this woman who thinks she can have my John? NO!_  “What is her name?”

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock, I know this must be hard for you, I can only imagine-“

“Her name!”

“Mary Morstan, twenty one years old, they’ve been dating for two years now,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, not really understanding his reaction until something clicked in his mind. His John was weak, weaker than he though at least, but it was just too much for his boy to be alone that long. Sherlock understood though, John didn’t really love this…this woman, it was only a hand to hold and perhaps a soft chaste kiss to the cheek that his love needed. That was okay, it was only proof of how lonely John was, to fall so much that he decided to live with the coffee girl. “I see, well, thank you for the ride,” Sherlock nodded to his brother and tried to step out of the car as it pulled in front of 221.

“Wait a minute, Sherlock, you haven’t seen John for five years, I tell you he’s dating somebody else, and all you have to say is ‘thank you for the ride?’ No, get back in the car,” Mycroft said, grabbing his younger brother’s sleeve and pulling him back in. “John is happy and you will not hurt him or Mary.” _He’s not happy. Oh my poor John, still putting on a brave face for everyone again, I see._

“I will not harm Mary,” _but her family is a different matter,_ “or John,” _I’ve would never hurt my John,_ “I will, however, win him back. Do you really think this barista stands a chance for John’s heart now that I’m back? Really, Mycroft? No, I will simply go to his flat and wait for him to fall into my arms, like he’s meant to do.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“He will. Why wouldn’t he?”

“But what if he doesn’t,” Mycroft asked again, his eyebrow rose dramatically.

“Then, I will change his mind,” Sherlock said, already knowing what his brother was going to say, “without harming him or Mary. You have my word, for whatever it’s worth. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some catching up to do. Good night, brother.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice serious as Sherlock stepped out of the car and poked his head back in, “I’m trusting you, don’t make me regret it. John might be nineteen now but he’s still just an innocent boy at heart, don’t ruin him.”

“I would never ruin my John,” was all Sherlock said before running up to his flat that Mycroft had paid for and apparently hired someone to clean every week. Before the detective even took off his coat, w _hy wait any longer to see him,_ he easily found John Watson and Mary Morstan’s location on his laptop. Mary had two sisters, mother deceased, but father living in Whales, _perfect,_ so Sherlock memorized every single one of them, placing the information deep down in the lockers before the dungeon.

It was nine o’clock at night by the time Sherlock made it to John’s temporary residence. He stood outside, his breath sending up clouds of fog as he made his way into the flat, easily picking the lock. When he entered, the noises he heard confused the detective until he crept closer to the source. There was a rhythmic banging matching perfectly with grunts and moans. At first, Sherlock convinced himself John was only wanking and he got the most wonderful romantic idea that he would show up and finish the job for him. John would call out his name as he came, his deeper voice would be placed on another gramophone in the study as it moaned ‘Sherlock’ over and over again.

“Mary! Oh fuck, Mary!” A voice Sherlock vaguely recognized shouted, followed by a grunt and high pitched shout. The banging halted and all that filled the flat was panting.

“John, bloody hell, I love you so much,” the woman’s voice said. Sherlock couldn’t trust his ears and made his way in the shadows to peek through the bedroom door and what he saw caused a great wind to blow through his mind, causing the chandelier to crash to the floor in the great hall, the candles to go out, and the doors in the darkest chasm of his mind to open, letting the darkness stampede through his lobes like wild horses. John, his John, was on top of a blonde woman, sweat dripping down his broader back as his hips moved slowly back in forth. With every kiss he saw John place along the woman’s face, the fourteen year old blonde boy ran through the palace and turned of all the lights until there was nothing left but blackness.

“I love you too, Mary,” the John that was supposed to be his, was his, said in that deep voice. This wasn’t right, Sherlock knew, but as he watched the young man roll off the succubus, he realized John was still just a lost child. A child who strayed from the right path and was scooped up by another wolf. A small boy who needed to be protected and carried was spread out on that bed, Sherlock’s boy. _I’m here now John, you don’t need to worry anymore. Sherlock’s going to fix everything, I promise._        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, John!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you liked what you read, come check me out on Tumblr http://nightfall24.tumblr.com/ to see the latest updates on my stories.


End file.
